


Mount Vernon, Nightclub & Bar

by kingthezeke



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe- Nightclub, Blow Jobs, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, Immigrants: They Get The Job Done, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Phone Sex, Power Bottom, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Sexual Tension, Size Kink, Slow Burn, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-05-30 18:46:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 52,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6436093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingthezeke/pseuds/kingthezeke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George and Martha Washington own one of the hottest nightclubs in all of DC. Their business is hectic, especially with the new staff, consisting of Alexander Hamilton (a belligerent bartender whom starts bar fights with patrons), the Marquis de Lafayette (a sexy dancer whom keeps their clients coming-- literally), John Laurens (the eccentric DJ whom enjoys his job a little too much), and Hercules Mulligan, their tough head of security. Their lives are non-stop every night but competition from an unexpected competitor keeps them on their toes. Welcome to Mount Vernon, Nightclub & Bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Businesses Are Like Children, George

**Author's Note:**

> He studies her, and slowly says, “Fine. We’ll do it. Together. But jazz clubs are cliché,”

This is the reason he limits himself on his drinks when he’s with Rochambeau. His Martha will never let him live this one down, he assumes, as his tired eyes skim the morning newspaper. She’s boiling water in a kettle, rambling on about some new idea she has for the nightclub they’d bought the weekend before—

 _Sweet Jesus, they bought a nightclub_.

He’s still trying to wrap his head around this predicament. Every morning, it’s the first thing out of Martha’s mouth, and every morning, it never fails to catch him off-guard. Apparently, she has a license to run a bar, which she never cared to mention to George.

Money, time, responsibility, _public image_ —a bar is just not a good investment at the time. He doesn’t want to do it, he couldn’t care less for it…But Martha is persistent.

“I like the idea of a classy _jazz_ club, George. What do you think? We could hire people to play a jazz ensemble every night. With cocktails and a bar—honey, have you looked at the pages from _Interiors_ like I asked you to? They’re bookmarked for you already.” She’s wandering around the kitchen as she speaks, cleaning and straightening stainless-steel pots and pans up. Their house is something out of one of Martha’s magazines. It’s like George lives in a hotel. His house certainly is big enough to accommodate a large number of people. And Martha certainly does keep it looking wonderful.

He usually has sound judgement skills. He usually doesn’t do anything impulsive, or stupid, or outside of the plan—not like buying foreclosed, unsuccessful, marine-themed buildings, anyway.

“Jazz?” he asks quizzically. “Kids nowadays like rock music, right?”

“ _Kids_ won’t be attending the nightclub, George.”

He holds the mug to his lips, but he doesn’t drink. “I don’t even like jazz.”

She thinks for a moment, then says, “Okay, so neither of us likes jazz. But other people like jazz, right? We are _not_ throwing away the jazz idea.”

George shrugs again. Sips his coffee. The glossy magazines Martha has been referring to constantly are spread out in front of him on the table, demanding his attention. This is the same thing that happened at their Marsala wedding, almost fifteen years ago. Martha had harassed him about which shade of burgundy he’d wanted his tux to be, which shade of white her dress should be. ‘Chantilly Lace or Tibetan Jasmine?’ He told her he liked Chantilly Lace for her. ‘Don’t rush, George, this is an important decision.’ He confirmed Chantilly Lace after twelve minutes of scrutinizing both swatches. They both looked like the same shade of white to him.

Now she sits in front of him, leafing through the magazines, ooh-ing and aah-ing under her breath with each page she turns. He drinks his coffee in silence, per usual. George doesn’t speak much, but Martha makes up for it, by constantly going on about whatever’s going on.

She holds out a few pictures for him to see. “This one’s in San Diego. Do you remember we went there during that campaign you did in Phoenix?”

He agrees that he vaguely remembers. But the truth is, George would like to stop talking about the nightclub. It’s been all she’s been engaged with since that night, it seems. He can never forget about it.

“Do you think black lights would be a good investment? See, look, here, I like this,” she points, with her manicured finger, at a white-tiled floor in a room illuminated with lavender neon lights. There are white drapes hanging over the spotless bar, and the arranged seating looks plush and comfortable. “We could do something like this, but maybe not as pristine. It will come off as snobby. Plus, white stains.”

After another ten minutes of observing her admire the magazine, and occasionally flipping the book to show him whatever she’s marveling at, he finishes his coffee and decides to leave her to work her magic. He goes for a run to clear his head. It’s a Sunday morning, his only morning off, but now it’s even being sullied by this damned _nightclub_. This certainly was unexpected. He’s down the street half a block, when he hears,

“Washington! Is that you?”

Spinning on his heels, he’s met with the beaming face of his neighbor, Friedrich von Steuben. He’s approaching him in a pair of ridiculously short bike shorts with a neon green helmet perched on his head. His sweaty spandex clings to his body as he walks the bike onto the sidewalk, panting as he comes face to face with George, who has backed away slightly, but not enough to offend.

“Friedrich,” George clenches his jaw in a smile. He knows what’s coming, can tell by that flushed look on the baron’s handsome face. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I heard you purchased that club on the water, you know? The Mad Shark! Martha was telling me all about it last night! Is that what it was called? The Mad Shark?”

“We did. And Martha and I are working on changing the name,” George replies politely.

Von Steuben owns a gay bar, just a mile or so down the road from the piers, George remembers. He had found out by being invited to the baron’s birthday party some time ago, held in his very own nightclub, _Maquillage_. The theme was _“undress to impress”_ which George thought was a clever joke (von Steuben has a strange sense of humor) but as it turns out, it was no joke. So George found himself being drooled over all evening, shirtless in his khaki shorts. Not that he minded some of the young men there. But that was a different story entirely.

“Aaah, so you’re finally interested in the business, eh? You know, not too far away from _Maquillage_! Maybe I can pay you a visit from time to time!” He’s laughing, so George laughs with him, good-naturedly. “I wish you the best of luck. You’re going to need it! But, you know, I was actually heading home. Azor hates to be alone, you know. Are you off to anywhere in particular?”

He keeps using the phrase ‘you know’, but George wants to tell him he _doesn’t_. He _doesn’t_ know why Martha would want to buy a _nightclub_ , of all things, and is almost certain it will turn into an absolute disaster. He _doesn’t_ know how she talked him into it, he _doesn’t_ know how to talk her out of it. He doesn’t know if he wants to.

“I’m just going for a run.” Is what he says instead, voice perfectly even. “It was nice talking to you again, Friedrich. Perhaps we can invite you and Pierre over for drinks sometime?”

“Of course! You know our gals get along wonderfully. We’ll talk shop over drinks, then. Ciao!”  He swings his leg over one side of the bike, and pedals off, singing _Le Festin_ at the top of his strong lungs.

* * *

On Tuesday afternoon, Martha sends him texts about hiring men to tear down some of the walls for renovation. She talks about tearing up the floors, too, but wants to wait until she figures out what she wants to do with the colors. She asks him over and over about carpet, tile, or wood, but he consistently tells her he honestly has no idea. So she goes on, with her litany, reminding him of how important it is to make these decisions and stick with them. She never backs down from a chance to exercise her superior interior design skills, he notes. He may as well have married Martha Stewart.

The question of finances has been up in the air for quite some time. Liquor, leases, furniture, décor, and of course, employees. He wonders what her plan would be for that. They’re living beyond comfortably, but George sees no opportunity in investing in a nightclub. Or a jazz club, for that matter.

“Can you just _support_ me, George?” she asks with exhaustion over dinner. “I know it’s a slow burn, but I want to do this together.”

“If you wanted something we could do together, Martha, we could have taken that dance class you wanted,” he sighs. “But buying a _building_ to avenge some dream from the back of your skull—that’s a little extreme.”

“Is it extreme, or am I just living spontaneously?”

He would like to inform her that there is, in fact, a difference between spontaneity and recklessness. Martha has never stuck to any plans. It drives George crazy. He loves her to death and would do anything for her, but stuff like this, he can't easily deal with. And Martha knows that, and does her best to understand, which is why she limits her grand escapades to sporadic rarities now. However, when she does finally break and pulls a stunt, it's usually the combination of her pent-up creativity and extemporaneous way of living. Something like this. Wanting to open a nightclub in the middle of April. He could really use a nap. “Have you thought _any_ of this through?"”

“New businesses are like children, George,” she says thoughtfully. “They need to grow, but they need to be nurtured. Right now, our youngest has just left for college and you are constantly working. I don’t want to be by myself anymore; I want to _give_ to this community. I want something to devote myself to. I am _not_ a housewife. I can operate a nightclub by myself. I just wanted to do it with you.”

He sits back in his chair. “It will take _time_. And you won’t be able to quit on it at the first sign of problems.”

“I won’t,” she smiles placidly. And he believes her. “So. Are we going to do this together, or not?”

He stares at her again, this time, without a response. He could _seriously_ consider killing this whole idea to spare her in the long run, but he won’t do that. Part of him wants to see how far his darling Martha will run with this. And he decides it’s more than enough for him to want to do this with her— _for_ her.

He studies her, and slowly says, “Fine. We’ll do it. Together. But jazz clubs are cliché,”

A smile quirks her lips faintly. “Thank you, dear. I need you to look at some of the colors I was considering.” She stands, taking her and George’s plate with her, to come back with an armful of her magazines. “How should we go about this?”

“I thought you had it figured out,” he murmurs. “I’m not too good with coordination. I’ll let you handle the design.”

She grins. He realizes that was her plan all along. “Great. Just look at these floorplans, dear. Tell me what you think.”

* * *

The next month is a slow one. It's exhausting. Martha is off on her grand adventure of renovating The Mad Shark graciously, consulting George about the most trivial topics. She can’t decide between marble or granite, patterned or solid, glossy or matte finishing. George, personally, likes the glossy finishing. It reminds him of Martha’s magazines. So, she goes all out, dragging him to Lowe’s and Home Depot, knocking out the things they can do on their own in their spare time, and hiring professionals to handle what they can’t—at least without hurting themselves considerably in the process.

Now, it looks a little nicer. Martha has some of the back walls knocked out to extend space for kitchens and bathrooms. They haven’t started on the exterior yet, but Martha is teeming with ideas. The Mad Shark is three stories high, which is odd for a nightclub, he thinks, but it has three large arched windows spanned out on the second floor exterior. A balcony protrudes from the center window, gracing the outside world with its curved railing. The building is made of some kind of stone, which George inspects more often than not, when he’s standing around idly as Martha gives instruction to the workers on which paint she wants in each section of the club. There’s a set of aggregated stone steps, which aren’t steep, but could be dangerous for drunken patrons. He tells her this. The entrance of the building is carved further inward, with the opposite sides of the entrance jutting out, forming elegant monoliths of stone. It strongly resembles the Italian gothic cathedrals George once saw in an architecture encyclopedia when he was twelve. He’s always wanted to visit one.

“We should put statues up there,” Martha muses as she catches him staring at monoliths. “You know? I think that would be pretty.”

He refrains from mentioning how unfortunate it would be to go bankrupt.

“Have we started looking at staff?” She’s sipping iced tea, leaving prints of her red lipstick on the glass gracefully as she does. “There’s a stage in there, so we need dancers or some performers, we have a number of bars, so we need _bartenders_ , we have a DJ booth, and we need security. We need people to work in the kitchens, waiters and waitresses, a promoter, janitors…”

“Shall we advertise?” he asks, still staring at the stone building.

“Sure. We need youth,” she ponders. Then, with a glance in George’s direction, though sunglasses, she asks, “This is a lively place, isn’t it? A lot of young adults running around, looking for jobs?”

“I would say so,” he offers supportively, though he has yet to meet someone who _wants_ to work in a bar.

Perhaps his tone doesn’t cut it because Martha sighs. “George. We really need to find someone for staff. For starters, at least. Can you talk to Friedrich and see if the two of you can’t work something out?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

And that he does. Days later, the baron supplies George with the number of one his former employees. He’s warned him considerably, “He’s an immigrant from France. He’s still sort of in the process of learning English, but I speak very good French, as does my Pierre. He is very good at what he does but his personality was kind of a deal breaker, though.” He told George the young man’s name was Marquis de Lafayette, and he was a professional dancer.

George has an interview arranged over lunch with Lafayette for Martha, but due to dire countertop mix ups, she can’t make it, leaving George to handle the interview himself. She’s explaining how horrible it is that she got the granite countertops, instead of the marble. She needs to switch it out. So at 1 o’ clock, George walks into Bar DuPont by himself, cursing Martha bitterly under his breath.

“You must be the General,” a young man speaks from a table behind him as George examines the restaurant. He stands, shaking hands firmly. “I am the Marquis, at your service.” He does a sort of half bow.

“George Washington,” are the only two words spoken as he sits across from the Marquis carefully. He unbuttons his suit jacket, folding his hands over his lap.

“My apologies,” his accent is thick. “If you cannot understand my English. But it is to my understanding that you are opening the new Mad Shark and are in need of dancers?” He’s articulate, but not in a way that would annoy anyone. Even through the mouthful of the accent he has, he still sounds supremely regal. He speaks wonderful English. 

“Yes. Are you interested in a job?” George inquires unnecessarily.

“I am. But I have some requirements of my own,” Lafayette crosses one leg over the other, under the table, shifting his weight in the chair. His back is ramrod straight. “When I was working in _Maquillage_ , my needs as a dancer were not met. I was grabbed at and sexually assaulted on many occasions and I need to know that _all_ dancers at The Mad Shark will be protected and secured— _people_ can be pigs, no?”

George could stand to agree with that. “We don’t have security personnel yet, but I know my wife would not let anything like that slide, Mister Lafayette.” He makes a mental note to bring this up again later with the baron. 

“Next,” he continues, indicating with tapping his finger on the table. “I am _not_ a stripper. I will not take my clothes off, Monsieur Washington, and there is no amount of money any man can pay me. I am _not_ a prostitute and you are not my pimp.”

“Is that why you left _Maquillage_?”  George raises an eyebrow. Von Steuben could really stand to take better care of his employees.

“ _Non_ , _mon ami_ , I left because I still had to pay for drinks,” he says this with a hearty laugh, which makes George smile.

He’s sure Martha will like him. He’s charismatic, he’s attractive—he’s young. “How old are you?”

Lafayette gives him a funny look before answering, “I am 24 years.”

That’s old enough, right? He should have asked for specifics from Martha, so he texts her,

> _He’s a good candidate. 24 is a little young, though? GW_
> 
> _george don’t be ridiculous . 24 is PERFECT . is he a cutie ? MW_

Um. He studies Lafayette, sitting across from him, staring at him with large brown eyes, curly ringlets of an afro pulled back into a ponytail. He has a curious hint of a smile, but it’s in his eyes. Suddenly, George finds himself wondering how good of a dancer he _really_ is.

> _Yes? I mean GW_
> 
> _Yes. I think he would attract people. GW_
> 
> _then he’s on board ! I’ll meet him this evening . invite him over for dinner , sweetheart ._ _MW_

And it’s settled. He invites Lafayette over, as Martha has instructed him, and Lafayette tells him,

“I know of three young men who are in need of jobs. They are quite beautiful men, and I am sure they would not mind working in a nightclub scene. I could talk it over with them and give you their _détails, oui_?”

Trying to think of how Martha would respond to this, he goes, “Why not bring them along tonight? We’ll meet you back here at 7 instead,”

So the Marquis and George eat, discussing business idly, and when they part, Lafayette gives him two kisses on each cheek, exclaiming something in French, something George doesn’t quite understand, and isn’t going to ask him to bother to translate for him. He leaves Bar DuPont, strolling to his car in the parking lot, muttering to it, “It’s been a long day, Nelson.” Martha had laughed at him when she discovered that he named his car Nelson, but George had thought it to be a sophisticated, charming name. He drives home listening to NPR.

It’s 7:30pm at the Bar DuPont, and Martha is sitting on her phone, waiting patiently. But George is restless. They’re fifteen minutes late, and he’s irritated beyond belief. He’s watching the door, for any sign that anyone might come in, but no one comes in or goes out. So he grumbles to himself. He’s usually a very patient individual—but punctuality is important. And these four men aren’t making a very strong first impression on George. Martha doesn’t seem bothered. She’s ordered a water, and is sipping through the straw, leaving lipstick stains again. She’s working on getting new glass installed in the windows this week.

The bell rings as the door swings open, and a group of boys walk in—they don’t look at all like they belong here. George observes them from his perch on the stool, but Martha has never seen any of them before and asks, “Are they who we were looking for? Is the freckled one ‘the Marquis?’ He’s cute.”

“No.” His instincts never betray him, and right now, they’re telling him to walk out and look at different candidates. They’re blocking the doorway, though, as Lafayette scans the restaurant.

When they’re spotted, the Frenchman ushers the boys over to meet the couple, announcing, “Ah! Monsieur Washington, _d’aise_!” He kisses him twice on each cheek again, provoking a giggle from Martha, behind him. “This is John, Alexander, and Hercules,” from the freckled boy, to a disheveled one, to a massive one. He shakes their hands as they’re introduced. They’re all smiling at him—except Alexander. Alexander is studying him and Martha the same way George is scrutinizing the rest of them. “If you do not mind, we will sit, _non_?”

“This is my wife, Martha,” George gestures to her, taking her hand tenderly. “Martha, this is the Marquis de Lafayette.”

“I’ve heard so much about you!” she beams. He voice is a song, and she’s so sweet. She shakes hands with all of the young men. It balances out George’s curt, no-nonsense disposition. 

“All good things, I pray!” Lafayette responds, grinning still.

The one called John takes his seat and says, “Marq says you’re looking to fill some positions at The Mad Shark?”

Alexander sits next to him cautiously. “I have some experience in mixology. John DJs in his spare time.”

“So what are your day jobs?” Martha inquires, voice full of concern.

“I work in that tailoring shop, on the other side of town,” Hercules says with a polite smile. “It was my dad’s business. I just took it over.”

“A family business?” Martha grins. “That’s lovely,”

“I am a dancer, as you know,” Lafayette says proudly.

Then, Alexander frowns, “I don’t like the name of the place.”

Martha chuckles. “We’re going to change the name. George and I just haven’t found anything to work yet.”

The waitress approaches, taking their order on drinks. When she leaves, George asks, “Have any of you, other than Lafayette, ever worked in a bar?”

Alexander and John raise their hands, and Hercules smiles bashfully. “I’ve worked security before. Just not in a nightclub.”

“That doesn’t seem like it would be a problem,” Martha reassures him. “I'm sure George and I can work something out. Are you boys sure you’d like to do work in a bar?”

“Bars are _exciting_ ,” John blurts out. “People appreciate my music—er, what kind of club is it? Not a jazz one, right?”

“Not anymore,” Martha laughs, carrying on the conversations with the men as George sits back and watches. She’s conducting an interview through casual conversation. Their drinks arrive, and Alexander sips his diet coke without a straw. Lafayette complains about his water not having lemon, like he’d asked. John and Hercules switch drinks after a moment. Martha has another water. The conversation flows nicely. No one has mentioned politics, religion, or personal inclinations, which George thinks is a bit unnatural. He needs to put them under pressure, to see how they’ll respond, but he knows his Martha has it all planned out. So he sips his bourbon in silence.

“What about you?” Alexander asks him after a while. They’ve order more drinks, alcohol this time, but George is the designated driver, so he has a club soda in front of him. Everyone is laughing contently, as if they’re old friends, but George hasn’t contributed to the conversation, only sat with them, observing politely. “Don’t you think _Maquillage_ is overrated?”

“I’ve heard some unsettling things about it, yes,” George says thoughtfully, recalling something Lafayette said earlier, paired with von Steuben’s own anecdotes on some occasions. It doesn’t strike him as particularly responsible to allow customers to treat employees with such disrespect that their safety and esteem are compromised. However, von Steuben has always been a money man who quotes Machiavelli more often than need be.

“I am telling you, _cher_ ,” the Marquis is draped elegantly over his drink, John watching him talk. Alexander is watching George carefully. George notices that Lafayette reverts back to his mother tongue more when he’s drinking. “It is an absolute hellhole. He behaves as if he is running a farm! In France, we say _se regarder le nombril_. He is too busy navel-gazing, _mon ami, c’est dégoûtant_!”

Alexander must have caught George’s offhand confusion, because he translates, “He's far too self-indulgent. It’s disgusting.”

“You speak French?” Martha exclaims, and Alexander smiles. George isn’t sure if it’s a question or a statement.

“ _Oui_ , John and I both do fluently. Do you speak any?”

“I’m afraid not,” she laughs. “I took German in high school, but I didn’t retain any of it. How do you know French so well?”

“I’m from Nevis,” he tells her, face flushing as he does.

And so, the conversation goes on like that. With Lafayette slurring French and Alexander and John translating it for him, Hercules cracking jokes and bad puns, Martha laughing and asking questions, George sipping his club soda patiently. He thinks this could work. This definitely could work. 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of MVNB, hopefully there'll be more to come!  
> I plan on committing to this, so you can reach me [here!](http://romaas-aesthetics.tumblr.com/) if you have any questions or suggestions! (◡‿◡✿)  
> I will update the tags as necessary as the story progresses, but right now, I have a pretty good idea as to what's going to happen.


	2. Welcome to Mount Vernon, Nightclub & Bar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the Army, George was taught not to corner his enemies. Fleeing soldiers are easier to kill than those who are forced to fight to the death when they’re cornered. Alexander’s back has been to the wall since his mother died.

It’s getting hotter than George half expected it to. DC weather is brutal with all seasons, he decides, starting up Nelson. It’s 96 degrees outside. Martha’s plans have been executed successfully, and _The Mad Shark_ is making excellent physical progress so far. She didn’t get statues, after all, but instead, fixed up the stone monoliths. She polished and sanded down the rugged stone until it was smoother and neater. She had joked that she’d done the same thing to George over time. He only laughed to humor her usual banter. He turns on the A/C and sits for a moment, letting Nelson cool off before he begins his ride to work. June traffic will no doubt treat him terribly. The heat seems to affect people’s driving a lot more. It’s a shame because they’re already the worst drivers in all of the country. So, in short, the heat does nothing to help that situation.  

George was asked, by Martha, to brainstorm what the bar should be called. Everyone has elaborately agreed that _The Mad Shark_ is not a suitable title for what Martha has converted the building into. It’s more elegant. More sophisticated. Less shabby. She wasn’t too concerned with rushing the name-changing process, but Alexander seemed quite irritated with it. So while George sits, he thinks. Every idea he comes up with is either already taken, or something painfully rudimentary like, _Martha’s Nightclub_ or _George and Martha’s Nightclub_.

On his way to work, he has to shed his suit jacket, to avoid sweating through the expensive fabric. He loosens his Italian silk necktie around his throat, and turns the A/C up a few notches. He prefers to keep the radio off during the morning hours, only because he gets overstimulated by noise and lights. The afternoon is his time to listen to NPR and the classical music station.

During the day, his focus dwindles on the bills he’s supposed to be redrafting. Martha’s brought the boys on board officially, and they’re doing their best to provide her with more employee stock. They also handle the heavy lifting. He’s met with a few of the candidates—not really nightclub material he’d said, but Martha can see potential in anyone. There was one man who’d stuck out like a sore thumb, but only because he was so mediocre and _normal_. He looked like he belonged in a bank on Wall Street, not at an interview for being a bartender. He didn’t have any quirks or modulations in his tone of voice. He was monotonous and polite. He just smiled and nodded, smiled and nodded. He was a smarmy guy, and that’s odd of George to think, considering he works with the smarmiest people in DC. George remembers his name because of the double letters—Aaron Burr. What a strangely ordinary young man. And so he puts in a request with his secretary to get a background check on the guy.

Nothing. Clean as a whistle. Not even so much as a parking ticket. That only irritates him further. However, he shifts his attention, and does a background check on the rest of the men. Lafayette is clean, too, but John Laurens has a few arrests for aggravated assault and disturbing the peace. Hercules Mulligan has an unpaid parking ticket. And at last, Alexander Hamilton has stains from all over. Fraud, larceny, disturbing the peace, assaulting a cop. George mouths a _wow_ as he reads through some of the police reports. He’d gotten into a fight in public with some guy, and in the process, smacked around an officer. So the kid has anger issues. Great. He’s only twenty six years old, and graduated from Columbia, but he’s an orphan immigrant from Nevis. George wonders why he’d throw away a degree from Columbia to be a bartender.

Even so, the two of them end up alone together that evening at Bar DuPont, looking over the potential finances of the project together. Martha has taken the night off, which she hasn’t done in a while, with her running the progress of the developing project. Still another few months, she’d said. Still, she and the boys are working efficiently. Alexander sits across from him at a booth, skimming receipts and paperwork critically with a diet coke within his immediate reach.

“The economy is reeling,” Alexander murmurs as he continues to add and subtract hundreds and thousands. “You’re not trying to break your budget, are you?”

“I don’t think Martha has set one,” George replies simply, earning a chuckle from the man across from him.

“I can see that. But what she’s trying to do, I think, is double the cost of investments for _The Shark_ ’s property value. It’s a really common tactic that a lot of people use with purchased foreclosed properties. And I still don’t like that name.”

It’s George’s turn to chuckle. He still hasn’t come up with any other names, other than what he’d thought of in Nelson. “I’m still working on that. Has she hired electricians to replace the mechanical systems?”

“Yea, she’s got all the central systems covered… electric, mechanical, and plumbing.” He flips through some of the papers, then asks, “Does she ever talk to you about any of this?”

He debates on answering that question. She doesn’t, really, and George doesn’t mind, but there’s something else this young man is looking for. “Not really. I prefer to be left out of it when Martha starts her makeovers. She does have a knack for it, I suppose.”

“And quite a knack indeed,” Alexander mumbles, still studying the papers in front of him. He orders a diet coke when the waiter takes their order. So George gets a club soda. Time passes, and as Alexander writes down calculations, George recalls that he is a graduate student from Columbia.

“Why are you in DC, son?” George asks.

 The young man sits back slowly, removes his glasses. He smiles, probably to avoid any other emotional reaction. “I guess I moved down here with big dreams. They didn’t really work out. I was stranded.”

“What were your dreams?” It doesn’t hurt to ask.

“Wanted to be the youngest immigrant in politics with the sharpest mind.” He’s staring out of the window to his left. “Wanted to prove myself to this country, I guess. Like I said, though, it didn’t really work out. I had a lot of ideas, too, of every possible route I would take if I got into any position. Just not the one I’m in now. I didn’t anticipate failure.”

George would like to ask why it didn’t work out, or _how_ it didn’t work out. How he knew for _sure_ it didn’t. But, instead he asks, “Where’d you go to college?” to avoid skepticism if he mentions it one day, without Alexander having told him. That could make for some good controversy, which George prefers to avoid at all costs.   

“Columbia.”

“And you’re a bartender?”

“Not a bartender. A mixologist.”

George laughs. “Hardly, Alexander.”

“No one calls me that, man,” his tone is light, teasing.

“I’m sorry?”

“No one ever calls me by my full name. Except my mom; she was the only one who used to,” he says with a sigh, reaching for his diet coke. George watches him move, with so much force and energy in a small gesture. It really speaks about a person, to know how they move. He likes how Alexander moves.

“She doesn’t anymore?” George inquires innocently, sitting back.

“She died. I was 13.” It’s curt. Practiced. He takes a swig of the soda.

George certainly wasn’t expecting that, and is caught off-guard. He coughs. Right—the orphaned immigrant from Nevis. He remembered the college, but forgot the orphan part. Smooth. “My condolences,” he says awkwardly. "I won't use your full name if you don't want me to."

There’s a half-smile somewhere in those intelligent eyes. “No, it’s fine. I like it when you say it. Makes me sound sophisticated.”

George shrugs. “To be fair, it is a sophisticated name on its own. Speaking of names, do you have any ideas as to what we could rename _The Mad Shark_?”

“Martha said that was entirely up to you. What have you come up with?” He’s smiling behind the silver can.

“Not much,” George responds, watching him. Alexander really is beautiful in a messy way, not that George minds the rough edges. He’s discussed his personal inclinations with Martha.

He sits forward, ignoring the papers, attention solely on George at the moment. And it terrifies George, slightly, to have _all_ of this man’s attention at once. He says, “Tell me what you’ve been thinking.”

It isn’t a request, George realizes. Catches him off-guard again. He maintains his composure. “Uh… _George & Martha’s Nightclub_,”

There’s a moment of silence before Alexander realizes he’s serious. This provokes a small, “Oh.”

George shrugs again. He’s told Martha he isn’t very creative. He prefers to stick to pragmatism.

“Is that it?” Alexander asks, amusement ingratiated with his tone somewhere in there. “That’s all you’ve got, after two weeks?”

His club soda is going flat. He decides to get a refill, so he waves the waiter over and puts in his request, and for another soda for his guest. Then, he asks, “Are you religious, Alexander?”

“Not anymore,” he shrugs. “This world kills faith.”

“That’s a fair observation,” George concludes. And after all he’s seen and heard about the boy, he wouldn’t argue with that.

“I’ll pray on some occasions, though that’s rarely what I’m on my knees for.” The last part is probably meant to be a joke, but he can’t tell because Alexander is laughing with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. So he’s polite about it and pretends it goes over his head (for his own sake), and their drinks arrive shortly thereafter. “Are you?” Alexander asks.

“To some degree. Not really. But my Martha is a southern gal with traditional tastes. So I appease her on Sunday mornings,” he replies slowly. “She’s very understanding. Very accepting.”

Alexander nods. “She’s a wonderful woman. Very beautiful, very lucky.”

“That, she is,” George agrees. “But I’m the lucky one, young man.”

Alexander reverts their discussion back to business after a while of sitting in silence. But George doesn’t mind the silence. It’s natural with Alexander. But he also enjoys hearing him lecture about finances and the current goings-on in the economy, which influences Martha’s success rate. And from what he hears, they’re in good shape. That’s not too bad at all.

* * *

Martha has a way with people. She’s charismatic, outgoing, persuasive, and compassionate. The whole package. She’d be the perfect politician. She just isn’t corrupt at heart. When George arrives at _The Mad Shark_ the next morning with refreshments from Starbucks (per Lafayette’s request), she is sitting on the steps, flipping through interior design magazines with the baron. They don’t seem to notice George until he blocks their sun with his tall stature and broad shoulders. It’s still in the nineties, but the temperature has only dropped a few degrees.

Martha looks up first. “George!” She stands, kisses him on the cheek, “Friedrich and I were just looking at some of the light fixtures. Have you seen the blue lighting under the bar surface? I was wondering—should we go with recessed fixtures over the bar? Friedrich said pendants were a better decision.” She holds up the magazine to demonstrate the difference visually. “There are vanity lights in the restrooms.”

She goes on to explain the difference in aesthetic it would produce, debating with von Steuben, which gives George a headache. The commotion brings Lafayette outside, who is happy to see George with his Starbucks order.

“ _Merci_ , Monsieur Washington,” he steps over the baron’s legs. George still isn’t too sure how Lafayette feels about von Stueben. They don’t seem to dislike each other very much, but they don’t seem to like each other too much, either. He doesn’t care to blame him. After kissing him on both cheeks twice, Lafayette is taking the cup when Alexander is at the entrance yelling,

“Laf, we need you. John got stuck in the wall again.” He locks eyes with George, gives him a faint smile, something like a smirk, and turns back to leave as the Marquis grumbles,

“You two can never do anything alone, can you? I leave for _one second_ , and already, you have messed up!”

George walks in, too. He hasn’t been inside _The Mad Shark_ recently, but now it does look like a nightclub—it completely betrays the exterior 1100s-gothic-castle look. It’s dimly lit a deep blue, but the floors and the walls are black. It’s sleek, it’s glossy. Modern. Sexy. Everything has a reflection. There is no furniture, outside of the tables being arranged, and George can see that the walls are actually a sort of paneled black stone, behind the counter. He walks around, shoes clicking on the floor as he explores. This is not bad at all. He has to remember to compliment Martha, she’s really outdoing herself, this time. The countertops are glowing a cool blue, the dancefloor is, too. It’s vacant, though. Now he sees where all the money he and Hamilton discussed last night is going.

As he walks around, he observes where the boys have been working. They’ve been careful, but for some reason, they’re crowded around a hole in the wall, shouting for John to “crouch lower.” Either they don’t hear or don’t care that George is standing behind them, watching the spectacle with bored amusement. He watches them all try to reach in, but figure that they can’t so the three of the remaining four are shoving back and forth to see into the hole where John has fitted himself a little too successfully. There’s alarm in Lafayette’s voice, but Alexander is doubled over with hysteric laughter.

“I cannot see you, but you are stuck, _mon ami_ , please cooperate, or we can’t get you out!” the Marquis has set aside his Starbucks iced-coffee to pull John out of the wall. It doesn’t seem to be working. George doesn’t even want to know why he was _in_ the wall, to begin with. “Hush, _Jambon_!”

“I _can’t_ crouch lower!” John wails back, and Alexander laughs harder. “There’s not enough room!”

“I got his arm,” Hercules says suddenly. “On the count of three, I’m going to pull. You push yourself outward, okay?”

Now, George is joined by the baron and his Martha, who are also curiously watching the boys, who still haven’t seemed to notice them.

“No, don’t pull! That’s gonna hurt!” comes the whining from inside the wall.

“Do you know what else hurts? Suffocation,” Alexander snaps, seeming to have sobered up from him cruel laughter. “Now on the count of three.”

“One,” Hercules says slowly, giving John time to adjust to his grip.

“Two…” Alexander continues, wrapping his arms around Hercules’ waist to assist the pulling.

“ _Trois_!” Lafayette exclaims, and they begin to pull.

John lets out a long, pained “Ow” as he’s wrenched from in between the stone walls. But after some readjusted pulling and debating, his upperbody is free, and he can push himself out sideways, awkwardly. Once he’s out, John stays on the ground, pitifully rubbing his thighs, groaning softly. Lafayette is seated with his iced-coffee, scolding John about agreeing to dares with Alexander. Even so, Alexander drops a twenty into John’s lap briskly, plopping down next to him. Over the course of the last three months, George has learned that John and Alexander are roommates, and Hercules is their next door neighbor. Lafayette lives downstairs from them, and they’ve grown close since he moved in. He has also learned that Alexander has a violent temper, and so does John, but Hercules is the biggest pacifist they know. Lafayette is probably more flamboyant than the baron himself, but he’s also the most reliable. John is the most compassionate, and Alexander is the hardest working.

Alexander. That boy is a machine, he decides. He’s a tactical genius, but that could be easily overlooked with his loud mouth and short temper. He’s intemperate, belligerent, impulsive, brilliant and stubborn. And George has decided he likes that about him, after last night. But even a boy who graduated from Columbia on a full-ride academic scholarship makes dumb decisions, like betting his best friend he can’t fit into a crack in the wall, barely wide enough for George’s forearm to fit through for a twenty. So he doesn’t think about it much.

“Hello?” There’s a curious voice calling from the entrance. It sounds vaguely familiar. “I saw a few cars parked out front, I figured—” a familiar face peaks around the corner. Aaron Burr, the curiously conventional Average JoeTM. “I thought I might find you in here.”

“Mister Burr, sir,” Alexander stands, dusting his pants off.

Burr nods toward Hamilton in a distanced, polite acknowledgment, but is scanning the room for the clear leader of the pack. Then his eyes settle on George. He walks toward him with a measured stride, hand out, prepared to shake. His grip is far firmer than George had expected it to be. “Mister George Washington,” he begins. “Aaron Burr.”

“Pleasure,” George smiles without teeth. “My wife, Martha.”

“We’ve met,” Burr says with a small handshake for her, as well. His grip is weaker there. “I wanted to let you know I’m grateful for the job opportunity, Mr. and Mrs. Washington. I wanted to thank you for hiring me. I look forward to working with you in _The Mad Shark_. I’m sure it will be a success.”

“We’ll be changing the name soon, don’t worry.” Martha assures him.

Lafayette mutters something to Alexander behind George in French, to which Alexander responds with a snicker. Both Lafayette and John laugh. Burr frowns. “Is something amusing you, gentlemen?”

“ _Non_ , _non_ , Monsieur Burr, you have nothing to worry about. We look forward to working with you, also,” Lafayette waves a dismissive hand through the air. “ _C’est connerie, Jambon_.”

Burr doesn’t stick around much after he has made his point. He leaves, shortly after Martha explains the schedule for next week, but seems to value George’s rare input more than Martha’s instruction. He directs every question toward George, and only shows comprehension from George’s confirmation.

“ _Regarde ce putain de cul_ ,” Lafayette murmurs, and John promptly translates for George and Martha. Hercules has retreated to the men’s room.

“‘Look at this fucking ass’.”

“Language, boys,” George gently scolds. Lafayette is unfazed.

“Did you seriously hire that guy?” John asks George and Martha. “He’s, like, the shadiest guy on Earth. That’s bad for business.”

“Yes, I hired him,” Martha says with finality—a finality that John doesn’t bother to challenge. “And I hired a few others. Charles Lee, and the Schuyler sisters, from Manhattan.”

“Charles Lee?” Lafayette looks over at the baron in mild shock. “Do you mean to say that bartender from _Maquillage_?”

“Pierre fired him,” von Stueben says after a moment of thought. “He wasn’t good for the atmosphere. Don’t think he was really into the, uh… _crowd_ there.”

That was understandable. Von Steuben’s club was full of “predatory gays,” as Alexander had called them before. And he certainly wasn’t incorrect.

“He’s on board,” Martha reads from her phone, “We also got Angelica and Elizabeth Schuyler. Oh, and Margaret. They call her Peggy.”

George hasn’t met any of these people, and suddenly feels the overwhelming need to do so. He can’t be unfamiliar in his own space. Serving in the Army for ten years did well to make him realize that. “When do we meet them?” George asks, voice flat. He’d gone through all the trouble of analyzing the Marquis de Lafayette during his interview and consulting with Martha while doing so, but she’s leaving him out of the loop, and hiring staff that fits her taste, without engaging him in any of it. He decides that her taste isn’t so bad. After all, look at who she’s married to.

“The girls will be here this evening. I’ve asked that they come now, which gives them more time to settle down. Lee is already in town, so I suppose we’ll meet with him on Friday night. We’ll have the entire staff by next weekend,” she beams proudly.

As promised, three girls show up at 8pm, bringing bottles of wine and fancy cheeses. Angelica, the oldest, walks before the two other girls. She has a confident air, which George respects. They introduce themselves through pleasantries, admiring Martha’s design for the house. George is upstairs when he hears them come in, but he knows Martha has a system, and he’d rather not mess with it. She always has a plan. The Schuyler sisters take a small tour of what she’s done with the place, and if they’re disinterested, it doesn’t show, because they’re all just as enthusiastic as Martha. They’re cooing over dish sets, Ikea furnishing, lamp posts, clock frames. He hears one of them squeal over the grand piano, and sits down to play it, gracefully. It relaxes him.

He’s reclined in his study when he hears the girls in the hall, giggling about the name of the building.

“ _The Mad Shark_?”

“We’re working on changing it, Eliza.” There’s Martha. “It was underwater-themed when George and I bought it.” Like a cliché eighth-grade afterschool dance in the gym.

“I think it’s cute. Isn’t there a lot of blue lighting, anyway?” another voice asks.

“People like humor,” Eliza’s voice comes back, closer. “Kind of ironic?” They’re closer to his library now, so he stands to greet them when Martha ushers them in politely.

“This is my husband, George.”

“Good evening, ladies,” he says with a smile.

“Mister Washington,” the one called Angelica smiles, shaking hands with him first. “Angelica Schuyler.”

He goes on to greet Eliza and Peggy. They seem like nice young people. “What do you do?” he asks.

“Eliza is going to work behind the bar. Angelica and Peggy are going to be waitresses,” Martha tells him. “They all have wonderful experience.”

George is wondering how one could have “wonderful experience” as a waitress when they leave. Either way, he’s complacent with Martha’s selection. She needs some friends who share the same interest as her, anyway.

* * *

It’s eleven that night when George’s phone buzzes on his desk, next to his textbook copy of _Psychology: Seventh Edition in Modules_. Martha is in the kitchen, drinking wine with the girls, exchanging stories and gossip, advice, and feedback. They’re laughing a little too loudly for there to only be four of them, but George ignores them and puts down his book. He picks up his phone.

> _Can you come pick me up AH_

George stares at the phone. Alexander?

> _What? Frome where? GW_
> 
> _*From GW_

There’s a moment before the screen flashes with his response:

> _Im @ Maquillage. Came to show that prick von Stupid how to pick on somebody who actually sucks dick for a living AH_
> 
> _You what??? GW_
> 
> _Laf told me about what he did to him. So I gave him a piece of my mind AH_
> 
> _I’m on the way. Stay outside. GW_

He gets to his feet and grabs his jacket with a quick excuse to Martha as he bolts outside. It’s about 60 degrees, but as he steers Nelson downtown, he’s hoping Alexander hasn’t started a fight with the baron. Although he wouldn’t put it past him. He wonders what, exactly, Lafayette told him.

When George arrives, the club looks the same as it did the last time he visited. People are scattering the lawn like it’s a 90’s house party. The bass of the music is resonating faintly, and he can see the black light and neon glowsticks bobbing in the darkness, wrapped around wrists and necks. He walks through the front of the security line, telling them, “I’m a friend of Friedrich’s. He’s expecting me tonight.” Thought he doesn’t look like he’s in the proper attire. The bouncer lets him past, anyway. He pulls out his phone,

> _Where are you? Thought I told you to stay outside. GW_

He goes on searching, but he can’t find the baron, so he asks one of the employees about him. A cheerful young man in a crop top behind the bar tells him,

“He went out back. Some maniac attacked but I think he knew the guy.”

“Thank you,” George murmurs, weaving through people and avoiding come-ons. He gets to the fire exit in the back, and presses the heavy door open.

The baron is sitting on a stool, with his dog in his lap, reading the newspaper. He has Alexander sitting on his knees between two guys who look like they work security.

“George!” von Steuben says, seeming pleased. Azor yips happily. “Thought you might appreciate my keeping him out here instead of turning him over to the police again.”

George walks over cautiously. Alexander doesn’t seem shaken, just furious. “I do appreciate it, thank you, Friedrich. And I apologize for his behavior.” He's speaking through gritted teeth. The last part is said, eyes precariously trained on Alexander. Though George isn’t sure if he’s staring because he’s angry at him, or because the boy is on his knees. Probably both.

“Oh, no, don’t apologize for him. I’m actually embarrassed for him. Dogs are so predictable, aren't they?” With this, the baron stands, cradling Azor, walks past George, up the steps, and says, “The two of you can leave through the back. He isn’t permitted inside, anymore.”

So, they go around, through the fence, and follow the alleyway back to the front of the club, toward Nelson. George hates looking for parking, so he’s parked further down the street. While they’re walking, Alexander is muttering,

“I’m not ‘allowed’ inside, and talks about me like I’m some kind of damn dog. _And he’s embarrassed for me_? He wouldn’t have gotten away if he didn’t have security. And that fucking _rat_ he carries around with him...”

“There are more disciplined ways to handle situations, Alexander,” George chides, walking briskly. "And Azor is an Italian Greyhound. Very intelligent and very mischievous." Much like the youth walking beside him.

"I can honestly say that I do not give a fuck about what kind of dog he owns, George Washington. Do you know why? Because that man is a fucking _pig_.  ‘ _Disciplined’_? No! Don’t you fucking  _lecture_ me about 'handling situations' when you didn’t even bring it up!” Alexander stops on the sidewalk. “How can you still be friends with that guy after the way he treated Lafayette? You _know_ what he did. But I bet you don't even care, do you? Looking down your fucking nose at people who do what they have to do to make money! To get by and make ends meet! You've never had to deal with that a day in your life! We can't all be filthy fucking rich, can we? Not all of us are privileged enough to do what you do, do you feel proud yet?” Tears are threatening to fall, so George spares him the humiliation and looks away. He has a point.

He stops, and calmly says, "I don't mean to make you feel inferior. And no, I don't look down on people who are in difficult financial situations. And not by any stretch of the means do I hold von Steuben in a high regard for how he treated Lafayette, or his other employees. We are not friends. And nor do I want to be his friend, but there’s a time and a place for everything, Alexander. The Marquis is strong. But right now, we _need_ von Stueben as an ally, while we are trying to open this business. He’s been good enough to provide us with some of the best employees in the district. The Marquis understands. Now get in,”

Alexander reluctantly gets into the car, sits back in the seat with his arms crossed. He doesn’t look at George, doesn’t say thank you, doesn't say sorry, doesn’t say anything. Not that George expects him to. He's completely fine with it. 

The engine turns over, and George pulls Nelson out of his parallel parking space carefully, and drives off. “Have you been drinking?”

“What?”

“Are you intoxicated?” George asks, but it’s more of a demand. “You walk into a bar and swing at the owner of it, and you expect me not to ask these questions?”

“Fine. No, I haven’t been drinking.” His face is turned away, staring out of the window.

“Are you hurt?” he continues to ask.

“Nothing I can’t handle,” Alexander glances at George. “I’m fine.”

“Where?” he demands, meeting Alexander’s eyes for a brief moment. “Do you need to go to the ER?”

“No,” there’s a laugh in his voice. “I’m fine, Washington. Thanks.”

George lets out a deep breath. He knows Alexander will be stubborn. “Where?” he asks again, firmer this time.

Alexander tilts his head back in an exaggerated groan. “My ribs, okay? It’s fine, though, I probably just bruised them or something.”

“We should take you to the ER just in case,” and it isn’t a request. George is already switching lanes, prepared to take Alexander in.

“No, please,” he says with alarm in his voice. “No. I haven’t—I don’t…Please. I’m fine, okay? Promise.” He’s gripping George’s right arm, nails digging in through the cotton jacket he has on.

Something’s really spooked him, so George simply sighs with defeat and asks, “Have you eaten yet?”

It’s 12am, and they’re sitting in Waffle House, waiting for their order to be taken. Only a few other people litter the restaurant, but Alexander has grabbed a cozy booth in the corner of the dining room. Privacy. They haven’t said much, but George doesn’t mind. Alexander's mind probably wanders, even if he _did_ just get his ass kicked. He’s probably scheming, George decides, but then dedicates his mind to what they could rename _the Shark_.

“You should at least let Martha check you out,” George mutters, watching Alexander fork down a plate of waffles, drenched in syrup.

“I’m fine,” the boy says through a mouthful.

Stubbornness surely does irritate George. “You have a black eye and a bruise on your cheekbone and a cut on your lip.” They cleaned his bloody nose up in the bathroom when they got here. “You need to get that taken care of. We don’t have to go to a hospital, Martha can do all of this at home.” The waitress, upon seeing Alexander so beat up, had given George a disapproving look. Not that he blamed her. But now he has to convince the kid that it’s okay to accept help every once in a while.

“Look, I know when I have broken ribs, and when I have _bruised_ ribs.” Alexander snaps. Arguing isn’t helping, but he knows the boy can go on forever. It’s attractive, in a strange way. He’s fierce.

“Do you?” George raises an eyebrow. “Did you go to medical school in the past hour?”

“Not officially. But I have Google,” he flashes his phone with a grin. “My ribs aren’t in terrible condition, I can breathe normally.”

“Stop Googling symptoms.”

Alexander shrugs, continues to eat. “I don’t see anything wrong with self-help, Washington.”

“That is _not_   what ‘self-help' is!” The disbelief in George’s voice is almost amusing.

There’s a smirk behind the fork hovering in front of Alexander’s lips. His eyes flash, and George’s dick stirs in his pants, but the conversation ends there.

On Friday afternoon, Charles Lee is welcomed on board. He’s stiff and pretentious, which doesn’t surprise George, if he was working for the baron. Speaking of, von Steuben hasn’t come around or contacted George since the incident with Alexander. And Alexander shows no remorse, sporting the black eye like a trophy.

“Kicked his fucking ass!” He boasts to anyone who asks about it. George doesn’t bother to listen past the opening line.

* * *

Mid-July, Charles Lee, Aaron Burr, the Schuyler sisters, his boys, and a ton of other people who have been hired are sitting at the stage in the building, which is expected to be completed at the end of August, which is a relief to George. Construction and renovations have been going on since April.

Martha walks up onto the stage, with everyone else sitting in the chairs that have been recently delivered, pulled up to watch her mini oration. There’s light, scattered applause. She smiles warmly. “Thank you all for joining me and George tonight. I’m Martha, and it’s such a pleasure to work with some of the most talented people in this field. I’m sure it’ll be a rough start, but we just wanted to get all of _The Mad Shark_ staff together for the first time. I’m going to read names, and positions. First, we have John Laurens as our DJ,” there’s whooping and cheering as he stands for the applause. “Our bartenders will be Alexander Hamilton—who was also placed in charge of the finances—Eliza Schuyler, Charles Lee, Aaron Burr, Edward Hector, Steve Olney, Johnny Adlum, Morgan Connor, and Billy Todd.” They stand at their names, waving, smiling. Martha continues, pleased. “Our head of security is Hercules Mulligan…”

The salutatory goes on like this for a while. With Martha reading names, and the owners of those names stand and smile, wave, and sit again. For some reason or another, Martha’s social graces are never overbearing or superficial. Her authenticity, he thinks, is really what gets people. She’s charming and thoughtful. His eyes drift to Alexander, who is sitting comfortably on his bar stool, sipping a bottle of water casually. He’s only cheering for the people he knows, snickering at names that sound funny. His eyes are twinkling, and it dawns on George that no matter how beaten up and in need of a trip to the ER Alexander may be, there’s probably nothing in the world that could possibly break him. The boy’s a true fighter at heart. In the Army, George was taught not to corner his enemies. Fleeing soldiers are easier to kill than those who are forced to fight to the death when they’re cornered. Alexander’s back has been to the wall since his mother died. Perhaps that’s why he’s so wild—such a free spirit. He’s used to dealing with his problems with his fists. Diplomacy doesn’t work well for those whose mouths get them _into_ every altercation they encounter. He’s deep in thought when Martha ends the listing with the Marquis de Lafayette and a few other girls as dancers and performers.

 “At last, George and I are the owners, founders, and managers. You will come to us with any problems you experience here in the work place. We’re open to anything you have to contribute and want to make this experience memorable and as comfortable as possible for all of you. So. We’ve heard a lot about how no one really likes the name _The Mad Shark_ ,” there’s laughter. “We're always being asked if we're going to change the name. But, I thought the name should have been something that the building grew to become. Not the other way around. So, George and I have _finally_   taken the liberty and renamed it.” 

Now there’s _real_ applause, which lasts about a whole minute, complete with cheering, whistles, and whooping (courtesy of John Laurens and Alexander Hamilton). This amuses George, who likes to see his boy at ease. He says into the microphone, once the applause has died down, “Martha and I have finally decided to name it after my family’s residence, which holds meaning to both of us. And, as the founders of something great, you’d want the title to reflect how important that something-great is to you. Welcome,” he says, “To _Mount Vernon, Nightclub & Bar_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooo, here we go!  
> some major HamWash in the next chapter, I hope you are the ready!  
> (does anyone else get a disrespectful vibe from Burr? I don't know, I don't think he's disregarding everything Martha says because she's a woman, I think it's because he thinks GW is the actual leader, and he likes his information from the source. I don't think he's necessarily a misogynist.)  
> 


	3. Right Hand Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Look at what we’ve made, George,” she tells him, and he does. What he sees is people they’ve gathered off the streets about to do something amazing. Something game-changing.

The grand opening is set to be on August 21st because _Mount Vernon_ is completed in the third week of August. The staff has been doing a spectacular job at hyping the date up, promoting it, and all other aspects of advertising it, George notes. They take pride in their work. Now it’s the most anticipated thing since New Year’s Day. He’s never seen Martha so excited. He’s listened to her stressed rants in the last five months about how most nightclubs fail on the first few attempts, and she doesn’t know what she’d do if it all fell to shit. George, unfortunately, doesn’t have an answer for that. Despite this, however often Martha becomes intimidated or discouraged, she makes up for it by radiating confidence twice as much. Inspectors are pleased, as are onlookers. No one outside of the staff has been inside yet, but it’s rumored to look like it belongs in Vegas. Martha is careful not to become over indulged, though she appreciates the compliments on her interior design skills.

George works with Alexander and Charles Lee on ordering inventory for the bars. Martha and a few of the chefs compose the menus and order stock for food. Janitors check and double check all of their cleaning supplies. Everyone is busy, making arrangements, checking inventory, reading off lists, calling back VIP reserves, counting and recounting money in the registers, buzzing around, helping each other out in every possible way. People have already called in, booking VIP decks, trying to outbid those who have one already. No one knows quite what to say when someone from New York calls, requesting their own VIP deck, other than they’re big news, big time. Martha’s overwhelmed at this point.

Over time, George and Alexander grow close. They spend more time together, and mostly alone. It’s evident that Alexander has caught George’s eye, and Martha has realized this, giving her husband subtle, knowing looks whenever his gaze lingers a little too long, or his hands drift up the boy’s forearm thoughtlessly, as if it is the most natural gesture in the world, though he does it so tenderly. He and Martha have discussed George’s inclinations. Whenever Alexander is in trouble, George is always there to scoop him up out of it, lecturing him to make better use of his diplomacy skills. They go back and forth with their usual, George insisting he stop offering his opinion so much, while Alexander insists that everyone is an idiot and he’s the only one with more than a half brain cell, it seems. Which, he hurriedly adds, “Except for you and Miss Martha.” There’s nothing serious going on between the two of them, George realizes/decides/understands, much to his own dismay. Though he wouldn’t be opposed to trying it out. But Alexander is reckless.

“You can’t keep doing this,” George mutters, walking up the steps to his and Martha’s residence with Alexander behind him. “And _I_ can’t keep doing this, Alexander.”

Shame is burning bright and crimson in Alexander’s cheeks. He doesn’t say anything as George unlocks the door, pushes it open, and steps aside for the boy to pass through. His eyes are trained on the ground as he’s walking.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you.” It sounds harsher than he’d intended.

“Yes, sir!” Alexander blurts out, eyes immediately on George’s, swinging around to face him at full attention.

There’s a shift in the atmosphere, though George can’t tell if it’s just his dick responding to that last impulsive interjection. He decides he likes that. It’s going to become a thing now.

“Do you need anything?” George’s voice is gentler.

“No,” Alexander doesn’t look away. He must have caught that look on George’s face, because he considers it before he tacks on, “Sir.” George’s cock fills out a little more.

And then Alexander is upstairs, and George is on his couch. He must get tired of doing what he does to pay rent. George can’t imagine. He hates to peel his boy off the sidewalk when he meets the wrong client. It fills him with both anger and terror, thinking maybe someday, it could be him in a dumpster behind a liquor store. To the world, he’d just be another prostitute in the wrong place at the wrong time, but George can’t stand the thought of that. He massages his temples, hears the shower turn on above him. At least _Mount Vernon_ will be opening soon, he decides, kicking his shoes off and relaxing on the couch, pulling a book open before him. But…

 _Sir_. Many people have called him “sir” before, he isn’t sure why he’s so fascinated when Alexander calls him such a thing. He isn’t sure why he’s turned on by it, either. Perhaps it’s the power dynamic, over someone as mercurial and wayward as his Alexander. Knowing he wields the rare power to dominate that boy excites him. And knowing Alexander accepts it, too, knocks him like a bag of bricks. He shrugs it off as some sort of kink he didn’t know he had. What can he say? Alexander brings out the worst in him.

It’s an hour or so before Alexander comes downstairs again, body flushed a slight tinge of red with the heat of the water. There’s a towel wrapped around his slight waist and he’s soaking wet. His eyes are bright, and dark, wet hair coils over his shoulders in glossy spirals. “I need a change of clothes.”

“Sleep here tonight,” George suggests, after a moment of appraisal. “I’ll drop you off at home on my way to work tomorrow. Martha will have no problem with it.”

He doesn’t object. Murmurs, “Yes, sir,” turns on his heel, walks back upstairs. What he would like to do is follow Alexander up there. Fuck his boy into the mattress until he’s screaming, begging George to let him come. But George stays put, thinks better of it, and lays back down. Self-restraint does not come easily these days, but somehow he manages, drifting off to sleep with visions of putting that pretty little mouth of Alexander’s to better use.

The week before the grand opening is a stressful one, more stressful than usual. The bartenders are practicing pouring a perfect four ounces without measuring, the table waiters are timing how quickly they can make it to and from the kitchen, based on how long it takes the cooks to prepare food. Lafayette is practicing routine with the other dancers, and John is still adjusting to the expensive DJ equipment. George walks around, observing and appraising performance, complimenting and criticizing as necessary. Martha’s requesting bartenders make various drinks, as she has done for the past month, to see how well they can accomplish the tasks without looking at the recipe. She’s pleased to find they’re improving consistently, becoming neater, with better memories. She voices these findings to employees, standing at attention behind the bars.

Eliza is in a steady, subtle competition behind the VIP bar with Charles Lee. They’re trying to one-up each other with fancy garnishes and technique, constantly sideways glancing at each other with curt detachment. Eliza is a polite competitor, but Lee has a snide disposition that makes competition less of a game. On some occasions, he’s even offended her with nasty remarks, he’s heard. Lee has been nothing but trouble since he’s arrived. He can’t seem to get along with anyone and Alexander is fuming that he is on the VIP staff and not him. VIP staff is one of the most top ranking jobs in the whole bar, according to Martha, but she and George have decided that it’s a responsibility Alexander cannot afford to screw up. Instead, he shares the A Bar, with Burr and some guy named Eddie Hector. Hector has a cute, crooked smile and shining baby-blue eyes. George decides he would look good with a cock in his mouth.

On the morning of August 21st, a young lady appears at the Washingtons’ residence, knocking on the door at 7:30am.

Martha opens the door, smiling pleasantly, with a disgruntled George behind her, tying his navy blue necktie meticulously. “Hello, can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m Sylvia Vanchester. I’m with Nightlife & Club Industry Association of America and I wanted to ask you a few questions about _Mount Vernon_ for the overview of 2016?” she’s smiling, but George isn’t. He retreats back inside, only to hear Martha ask,

“Of course, Miss Vanchester, would you like to come in?”

He knows Martha only wants to continue to subtly show off her design tactics, so he smirks into his coffee mug as the girl sits at the table.

“Okay. _Wow_.” She’s looking around, wide eyed. “This house is _gorgeous_ , Mr. and Mrs. Washington. Did you…?”

Martha grins. “Guilty as charged.” Her southern accent is a bit more prominent, George notices. “I’m very persistent about my cause.”

“I can see that,” Sylvia’s eyes are everywhere, trying to soak in every detail, scribbling down notes every so often. She asks questions about Martha’s inspiration and technique. The dialogue goes on for a while. Finally, she says with a sheepish laugh, “I have a few questions about the bar you’re promoting tonight?”

“Of course,” Martha seats herself in front of Sylvia with a mug of coffee comfortably. Sylvia had politely declined anything to drink; she had eaten prior to her arrival.

The interview is conducted more like a conversation, and George is upstairs again, leaving Martha to do what she does best. He has never been much of a people-person, so he consults his watch for the time. He’ll be leaving for work soon. He gathers his briefcase, recalling the meeting he has with Rochambeau this morning. Right. The very man who’d convinced him to buy the building, all those bleary evenings ago is back in DC on a business trip, to meet with the Secretary of State. He’s promised to pay George a visit within a lecture in French. _Mount Vernon_ is huge news, but they all understand that it will be short-lived. He figures half the charm must be the stark contrast between the interior and the exterior. Martha certainly is clever that way. He’s out the door at 8am, kissing Martha goodbye for good measure, and headed for Nelson. For August, it’s quite mild, in the low 70’s. George rides with the windows down.

Before Rochambeau is expected, his cellphone rings. His screen flashes _Alexander Hamilton_ , and he wonders what on Earth he could possibly need. Before he can answer it, the call ends, and he stares at the screen in confusion before a text pops up:

_Sorry. Didn’t mean to call lol AH_

George is slightly amused with this, but his face shows no sign of it as he pockets his phone just as Rochambeau enters.

“Jean,” George speaks warmly with such familiarity, it shocks even him. Rochambeau doesn’t seem bothered, pulling George into a familiar hug, laughing.

“It’s good to see you, _Georges_!” He’s not surprised with the French-casual displacement Rochambeau is practically wearing on his chest. He’s dressed for the occasion, of course, but he’s behaving like an old friend.  

“How have you been overseas?” George inquires. He knows Franklin and Jefferson have been in France, handling business for the last nine months. Rochambeau occasionally comes to the States to handle some of his own. He couldn’t imagine why else he’d be here.

“Could not be better!” After this statement, he trails off in French, which George doesn’t bother to attempt to decipher. But finally, he says, “I hear your nightclub is big news, _non_?”

“Ah, yes.” His jaw is clenched in a smile. He isn’t sure how to answer that. It was only a matter of time before the topic was brought up, he was sure. He just doesn’t like the teasing hint of told-you-so in Rochambeau’s voice. Owning and operating a club definitely strenuous, with his career and balancing Martha’s goals with his. On top of that, they haven’t even _opened_ yet (not yet!) and it’s proving to be difficult enough for him. He isn’t sure he will know what to expect once they are officially in business. He’s already past the limit of how much effort he puts into projects he doesn’t care for. However, Martha’s made it abundantly clear to him on multiple occasions that she would like to put both her and his name on _Mount Vernon_ , and that he would need to put in enough time for her bar, too. Not that he minds. He likes some of the company it brings. He discusses the process with Rochambeau casually, leaving his personal view on things out of it, to avoid complicating matters. 

By the end of the “meeting,” Rochambeau is charmed and very enthusiastic. “Tonight, you say? I’m sure I can make it. I would love to be there for the grand opening!”

Though he is thinking the exact opposite, he says, “Perfect.” George steers him to the door politely, saying his farewells and agreeing to talk with him again over drinks sometime soon. Not that he’s going to, lest he buys a camel, or something else ridiculously outrageous this time. He checks his unread messages when he’s alone again.

> _Wanna have lunch, Wash? AH_

He responds:

> _Today? GW_
> 
> _Duh. Meet me @ Komi, 12pm AH_
> 
> _I just got out of a very important meeting. Can we push the time back a little further? GW_
> 
> _I’m already here. See ya when you get here AH_

A frown passes over his face and he consults his watch, again. 11:40am. He can’t stand up the boy who so boldly commanded him to lunch. To a date? He considers it. He may miss out on a potential _anything_ with him if he declines this date, so he sighs and stands. “Goddamnit, Alexander,” he mutters, shrugging his suit jacket on. “Ben, could you clear my schedule for the rest of the day? Something very important has come up and I need to tend to it.”

“Of course, sir,” comes the reply from the adjoining office. And then his mind is reverted back to the way Alexander had said it a few weeks ago.

He isn’t very impressed with the way Hamilton is going about this whole “romance” thing. If that’s even what this is. In Nelson, he rationalizes that this could very well be just a lunch between boss and employee— _friends_ , even, though their relationship has crossed many professional boundaries. None that weren’t mutual and discussed, of course. But the way Alexander _looks_ at him—he can’t be imagining that.

He arrives at five past twelve, being seated with Hamilton promptly after his arrival. George appears to be a little too large for such a small restaurant. He smells seasoned meats, and wonders why they’re here, instead of Bar DuPont. 

“Hey,” the boy smiles mischievously, eyes twinkling as they always have. “Ordered your club soda.”

George raises his eyebrows at this. Is he really _that_ predictable? No matter. “Thank you, Hamilton,” he murmurs, regarding it keenly. Then he returns his attention to those beautiful, sparkling eyes. “Afternoon.”

“Are you excited for tonight?” he asks, leaning in. “Because I’m _psyched_. I felt like today would never come! But it’s happening _tonight_! We’ve worked so hard on this!”

A smile tugs at George’s lips. “I know you have, son.” The Marquis, John, Alexander, and Hercules have all pitched in considerably, making the workload easier on Martha, while also allowing George to get back to his own work. The Schuyler sisters are a huge help, too. Even Burr and Lee are helping out. “And I thank you for that.”

“You don’t talk much,” Alexander observes thoughtfully. George chuckles, spares his words.

So they sit in comfortable silence, observing their menus. George doesn’t feel the need to mention that he will pay for the expense, so he reviews his own menu, relaxed in Hamilton’s presence. The waiter approaches to take orders.

“Hi! I’m James, I’ll be taking care of you today. What can I get ya?” He’s tall, broad. He sort of resembles Hercules, George thinks. His smile is sweet, but it isn’t genuine. He wonders where he’s seen him before, and not just being a spitting image of Hercules. There’s a vague churning as the gears rumble to life in the back of his head, scrutinizing this “James”.

“I’ll have the Psito,” Hamilton hands his menu back. He looks at George expectantly, watching him watch James. Jealousy flares in his chest. Without thinking, he blurts out, “Did you want to split the village salad?”

It’s so domestic, and George loves it.  His concentration stutters and he goes back to his own menu. “Sure. We’ll have the village salad.” The waiter scribbles, and George continues, “And I’ll have the tagliatelle with favas and tarama.”

“Will that be all for you today?” James asks cheerfully, finishing his notes and collecting the menus. He doesn’t seem to notice George’s intense staring.

“I think so,” George says, gazing over at Hamilton, to find him already looking at him with a suggestive gaze of his own. There’s a hidden smirk behind a wine glass. The way he’s _looking_ at him is enough to fill the man with want. Perhaps there is something there, after all. So it’s not terribly one-sided.

When they’re alone again, Alexander asks, “Was he ­ _that_ cute?”

“Who?” George looks up from his polishing the silverware.

“Our waiter. ‘James.’ You were staring at him pretty hard,” he laughs. “That how you behave on a date?”

George feels his cheeks flush warmer with shame. He can’t explain everything he does to everybody. So, instead, he clears his throat and asks, “Is that the reason you’ve demanded to have lunch with me, Alexander?” So it is a date. Sweet.

“Not a demand,” his mouth is stuffed with some of the awaiting buttery rolls that occupy the table. George still doesn’t understand why the boy won’t just _wait_ to chew his food, and _then_ talk. But then he remembers who he’s dealing with. And who he’s dealing with seems to lack the capacity to hold his tongue. “Glad you joined me, though.” He swallows his food.

“How much was that wine?” George nods to the bottle, and Alexander flushes with a sheepish laugh.

“I thought it was _complimentary_ , okay?” It’s obvious he hadn’t bothered to ask before he’d helped himself to a considerable glass. He’ll no doubt be buzzed by the time they’ve finished eating.

George offers a raised eyebrow, and Alexander responds with an eyebrow-raise of his own, sitting back into the cushioned booth. His voice is soft when he asks, “Why do you look at me that way, sir?” It’s innocent. Playful. He’s testing how far he can go. How far he can push George.

The man isn’t sure on the nature of the question. But right now, his eyes are on Alexander’s lips. Those brilliant, acidic lips. “Like what?” His voice is a rumble in his throat.

“You’ve always looked at me like you see right through me.” He’s swirling the wine glass like he owns the whole damn building, and George feels his cock respond a little too eagerly to the way Alexander bites his lower lip.

“How much have you had to drink?” George sits forward and inspects the bottle in his hands. Caymus Napa. On a good day, these bottles are around a hundred dollars.

Alexander rolls his eyes. “Please, Washington” he sits forward, discreetly places a soft, warm hand on George’s exposed wrist. “I’m not drunk. It’s 12:30 in the afternoon.” There’s a rosy tinge spreading up to Alexander’s ears that tempts to betray him, though. George wants more of his touch, more than lingering fingers brushing over his tendon. But he can’t act on it. Not now, anyway. Alexander moves his hand, sipping his wine. He’s about to speak again when they’re interrupted by their platters being placed in front of them by James, who is also rambling about complications in the kitchen and is asking them to pardon the service today—

“We’re usually more efficient than this,” he arranges the plates before them, saying, “We just hadn’t—”

“You’re fine, really,” George says simply.

“Oh, thank you, Doctor Mister Vandertramp,” James says, with a smile gracing his face. George raises an eyebrow at the name, but spares Alexander the glare. Their waiter is no doubt embarrassed about what’s going on. Perhaps he’s worried it may affect his tip for the day.

When James retreats again, George turns to the boy, who is still sipping his wine gracefully. “‘Doctor Mister _Vandertramp’_?”

“I thought it was sophisticated. Didn’t know how the press would react to _George fucking Washington_ having lunch with a kid like me,” Alexander shrugs. “You’re important, aren’t you?”

“I understand why you felt the idea of using a pseudonym, but— _Vandertramp_?” he lowers his voice. “I’m not even sure there are any Vandertramps in DC.”

“Correction: it’s _Doctor-Mister-Vandertramp_ , sir. I feel like the _real_ Doctor Mister Vandertramp wouldn’t like it if people skipped his titles,” the boy snickers. “You look like it fits.”

“There is no ‘real’ Doctor Mister Vandertramp,” George narrows his eyes and his boy laughs. But not at him. It’s a good natured laugh, which causes George’s frown to dissolve into a small smile of his own.

“Let’s split this salad.” Alexander shifts the subject, picking a cucumber out of the plate of vegetables and popping it in his mouth.

They eat, discussing the goings-on concerning _Mount Vernon_. According to Alexander, Martha’s went perfectly, and she has gone on a shopping spree, in celebration, for uniforms—black and a vibrant, deep blue—and people are expected to be lining up around the corners even at 5pm. NCIAA has interviewed him and John, too, but he isn’t so sure they gave all the answers the girl wanted to hear. No one has seen Lee since the evening before last, though he isn’t missing, and the baron is no longer too bitter about that incident in July with Alexander. He’s expected to be attending tonight.

When dessert is offered, Alexander hasn’t bargained George to really even be a sweets-guy, so they prepare to leave, once Alexander declares he’s finished. George flicks his Rolex up to greet him with the time—it’s 1:37pm.

“Would you drop me off at home, if it isn’t any trouble, sir?” Alexander murmurs as George gets the check, which isn’t too bad. He’s had worse.

Their eyes meet, and his boy’s eyes are half lidded and glassy. His lips are parted, face a deeper tinge of a pink on his lips and cheeks. So, maybe he is a bit drunk. There’d be no problem with taking him home, George decides, and shepherds him to the door.

Inside Nelson, Alexander nuzzles into his own arm against the window, humming lazily as George starts the car. He’s drifting off to sleep, so George lets him be. He remembers where Alexander’s apartments are, on account of driving him home from _Mount Vernon_ if John or Hercules decided to stay a little longer. He occupies his mind with other things, leaving the radio off, even though it’s NPR time. He figures Alexander isn’t an NPR kind of guy. About ten minutes into the ride, Alexander mumbles from his pillowed arm. “I had a good time.”

Assuming he was sleep, George is surprised to hear him speaking. “I did, too.”

“We should do that more often,” is the next thing his boy says, sitting up as George nears the complex. They mutually agree that it would probably make more sense if George walked him up to his door, seeing as though he’s drunk and may or may not fall down the flight of metal stairs without fair warning. When they’re inside, Alexander stumbles off to his kitchen, dropping his keys on the counter, singing a song George has never heard before. It’s in French, so maybe that’s why.

“Nice place,” he observes the unopened mail and various textbooks that scatter the living room floor. Political science and US Government. There’s no couch, but a few lawn chairs and a raggedy bookshelf. Said bookshelf is hardly being put to use, with all the books strewn everywhere else. There are pens and highlighters on nearly every surface, and a wall with papers and letters tacked to it. As far as George can tell, there are no pictures of any family, though two young men live here—the other being Laurens, if he isn’t mistaken. There’s a desk lamp plugged into the wall, positioned in a corner on the floor, angled to direct light over the papers scattered around it carelessly. There’s a coat rack next to the door, and a mirror next to it. George straightens his tie in it, checks his teeth. The faucet is running in the kitchen, and so George walks around a little bit more. He can see where they eat—over a chess table, with a game still in progress. Black is winning, he figures, and hears Alexander ask if he can get him anything.

He steps out of the kitchen, but his hair is down again, falling around his narrow shoulders and George sucks in a breath, which doesn’t do much because the wind has been knocked out of him. “No, thank you. I should get going.” There would be nothing to gain from taking advantage of the boy in this state. He’s intoxicated, George thinks, his judgment is impaired.

Alexander is apparently thinking the exact opposite, because he approaches him slowly. They’re right in front of each other, but Alexander’s standing on his toes to lean into a kiss, slowly enough for George to pull away if he wants to. But instead, George finds himself leaning into it, too, and suddenly, their mouths brush and Alexander’s soft lips are on his own. He kisses him once, softly, and then Alexander’s arms are around George’s neck and George’s hands are on Alexander’s waist. The way his boy kisses reflects his personality. It’s rough, untamed, sloppy. But it’s more than enough to make George want _more_ of him. He presses their bodies together, which elicits a small gasp from Alexander, and he breathes in the breath between them, but it’s still _not enough_. George moves until he has Alexander against a wall, kissing him hungrily, pulling him closer.

It seems like his Alexander has wanted this for a while, too, judging by the way he responds. His hands are gripping around George’s shoulders greedily, tugging him harder, moaning against his lips. He’s lithe and slender in George’s grip, and his dick stiffens as Alexander rolls his hips forward into it. He shoves his thigh between his boy’s legs, panting, heeding Alexander’s gasps and moans. He keeps him pinned to the wall by his shoulder. Alexander’s hard already.

“Not drunk enough to still be able to get it up?” George mutters, raising an eyebrow as he moves his leg to tug Alexander’s pants down.

“Yea, whatever.” There’s a breathy chuckle against his neck as Alexander loosens his tie, wrapping it into his fist and tugging on it, lifting his hips to assist George with getting his pants off. “I don’t see why that’s a problem.”

“It’s not,” George responds absently, his dick jerking and filling out more in response to whenever Alexander yanks on his tie playfully, guiding him into a kiss. After pulling off the boy’s shirt, his other hand fishes Alexander’s flushed cock out of his boxers, stroking him off slowly, still pinning him back into the wall with a sort of silent dominance.

Alexander writhes under the pressure, but unsuccessfully bucks his hips upward into George’s grip, to which he stops stroking entirely. Alexander’s mouth falls open in a strained moan. “Oh, _god_ , sir—please,”

George’s grip tightens a bit, and he can feel every bit of heat from his boy’s body as his legs wrap around George’s waist. He’s desperate for friction, begging the man to do something, anything, to stop teasing him.  He’s in a position where it’d be difficult to pleasure himself, so he’s left up to George’s mercy, with his cock in that solid grip. Very slowly, George starts off with light, languid strokes. They’re fluid and gentle, which makes Alexander thrash, throwing his head back with a breathy moan through gritted teeth, but still grateful for the contact.

Then, there’s that baritone-golden voice next to his ear. “You’re such a fucking tease, Alexander,” he murmurs. His Alexander whimpers a response, trying not to involuntarily thrust into George’s hand. “What was that?” His lips drop to Alexander’s bare neck, leaving kisses, sucking in marks against the hot skin.

The stroking gets faster, and Alexander ruts his hips, to no avail. George slows down again. “Ah, ah, ah,” he reprimands. “Be a good boy.” His tone is teasing, making Alexander flush pinker.

“I’m a good boy,” he whispers, nails digging into George’s suit. “Please, sir, I’m a good boy.” He’s dangerously quiet, gripping onto George in such a wanton fashion. He’s begging under his breath, but George knows he can do better than that. So he taunts him.

“I can’t hear you, son,” he growls against his ear. His grip tightens again, and he speeds up to encourage a response. His tactics pay off, because Alexander’s back arches against the wall and his exhale is either a shriek or a moan, he can’t tell.

“I’m a good boy, sir, I can be— _fuck_ —I can be good for you!” He’s trying to pull George closer, to breathe in his scent, but the man’s frame is solid and will not budge. “I’m so cl—can I come, sir? Please, I’m so fucking close!”

Oh, George likes that. He doesn’t respond, only smirks against his boy’s warm neck, nipping at it while he strokes him off, tighter and faster. He’s whining now, begging, “Please, sir!” It goes on like that for another minute or two, and George runs his thumb over the slit on the head of his cock and his boy practically screams, falling forward onto him, begging through a curtain of his hair that hangs forward over his pretty eyes. George takes the liberty to brush the locks away, kissing him tenderly. However, Alexander is in no mood to kiss sweetly when he feels like he might pass out.

“Please, sir,” he moans desperately. “Please, please, please. I’m a good boy, please, let me come for you, sir!”

And so, George lets him, growling against his ear, “Go on, Alexander.” And he need not be told twice. He comes in an instant, George stroking him through it, his boy moaning helplessly like he couldn’t give a damn if John walked in on them right then and there—George hadn’t remembered locking the door when he came in. His entire frame wracks, fists tight on George’s shoulders. Alexander goes slack against him, pulls him into a hug. Then in realization, he feels George’s hardness against his hip.

“Oh—here, let me,” his words are slurred either with the wine or the ecstasy of his climax, but he’s prepared to drop to his knees, when George stops him.

“Let’s take our time,” he suggests. “I’m not a young man anymore,” he adds jokingly. He steadies him, making sure Alexander can stand without his legs giving out, and then steps back. He looks at the mess they’ve made all over Alexander and his suit. He suppresses a laugh as he looks around for something to clean it up with. George’s phone buzzes in his breast pocket while Alexander leaves to get some napkins, pulling his jeans back up over his boxers.

_sweetheart NY Times and Washington Post both want an interview this evening before the opening . can you be back home & ready to present by 4 ? MW_

Alexander has reappeared, wiping his belly clean, offering a few damp napkins to George, who drops his phone back inside his breast pocket. “I’ve got two interviews with Martha this evening,” he goes to work on making sure there are no stains in his suit jacket. “She wants me home by 4, so we’ve got”—checks his watch—“A little less than an hour.”

Alexander hits him with the bedroom eyes again, moving to George’s belt buckle, but this time it’s welcome. “I could do more with less time.” He drops to his knees, tearing a condom open with his teeth.

* * *

Martha’s grinning when George walks in. He’d left Alexander’s apartment, twice well-blown and satisfied beyond words. He walks in, swinging the heavy door shut behind him.

“George,” Martha greets him warmly with a peck on the cheek, walking with him to the kitchen. There’s a bourbon already awaiting him on the kitchen island. “Did you see Alex today?”

“I had lunch with him,” he responds, shrugging out of his suit jacket. “Went back to his place. I won’t get into detail there,” he mumbles around the glass.

She smiles. “I’m glad he’s reciprocated—er, he _did_ consent, right? Before you…?” she trails off, meeting his eyes.

“Of course he did, Martha!” he sounds bewildered to even think she thinks he would lack the restraint, otherwise. “We’re two, consenting adults.”

Her smile returns. “You’re good for him. He needs someone like you to stabilize him, George. Did you use protection?”

“Yes, we did,” he says, matter-of-fact. “But there was no—it was oral.”

“Ah, keeping it classy, are we?” she jokes, to which George rolls his eyes. “I’m only teasing, sweetheart. Now, where are we with the interviews?”

“My email says at 4:45pm, the Times will be here. The Post will be here after 6pm. We should be at _Mount Vernon_ before 8pm if we’re opening at 10pm.”

“Did you get the VIP list for tonight? All of the patrons who requested a booth?” She reads off of her laptop a list of names.

“I thought that list was revised,” George mumbles, sliding his glasses onto the bridge of his nose as he opens the mail app on his phone. “Didn’t you say Phillip Schuyler reserved a deck? I don’t see him up here.”

“Who told you that?” she asks as George passes her his phone to compare to her list. “I think he may have had one before, but he cancelled and opened up deck A7 to—right, Jean.”

“As in Jean Rochambeau?” George asks. Martha nods. “By the way, Alexander tells me von Steuben is swinging by tonight?”

“Oh, yes, supposedly. I invited him to the grand opening. He was delighted. He’s bringing Pierre as his plus-one,” she does a little shimmy. “I told him he had to leave Azor at home, though. Didn’t want any chaos on the first night. Burr’s scared of dogs.”

He isn’t sure if Martha ever found out about the fight, but it seems like letting the baron into the same room as Alexander, Lafayette, and glass would be a recipe for a lot more disaster than letting him carry around a dog afraid of its own shadow. “I don’t… think that’s a good idea.”

“I know you love dogs, George, but think about it—people could have allergies, or he could get lost, or _trampled_ —”

“Not that,” George interrupts her. “A little while ago, Alexander went over to _Maquillage_ and confronted Friedrich over something that happened when the Marquis was still employed there. It just escalated from there, and there was an _altercation_ and I went to pick him up and…”

He watches her piece it together, and suddenly, her eyes widen and she asks, “Is that where he got that black eye?”

He nods gravely. There’s a pristine knock on the door, and he checks the time—it’s 4:47pm. He exchanges a glance with her, kisses her knuckles for luck. She rises, and whispers, “Let’s make some history.”

* * *

“You _still can’t find him_?” George asks into his phone. “Where else could he be? We open in one hour and we have all VIP decks _booked_!”

“We’ve tried his house, his girlfriend’s house, his mom’s house, von Stueben, _Maquillage_ , the mall. There’s nowhere else for us to check, sir,” Alexander says back. “Burr and I are trying to find out if there’s anywhere else he could be staying.”

“Have you heard from Laurens or Hercules?” he asks, leaning against the counter. He’s got the boys and Burr out hunting for Lee, who may just have cold feet. But it’s the grand opening and they can’t be short of staff. Especially not at VIP level.

“No, not yet.”

“Where’s Lafayette?” George asks at last.

“He’s right here, sir,” Alexander shuffles a bit. It seems like “sir” just slips out of his mouth naturally now.

After a moment of thought, he goes, “Alright, all of you just come back to the club. Forget Lee. Tell the Marquis I’m going to need him on VIP duty tonight. We have a flight of men from Atlanta, so I’m going to need him to do what he does on that deck.”

There’s a defeated, “Yes, sir,” and the call ends.

“What happened?” Martha asks from behind the counter. The standard uniform is black slacks and waistcoat and a royal blue collared button down for men, and a black skirt and royal blue collared button down for women. They each get a silver nametag, pinned to their chest, with the _Mount Vernon_ logo for garnish. Martha is graced in the standard uniform, as well as George, himself. She added her diamond studded earrings and necklace to match, draped across the collar of her shirt, like a chained cloak clasp. She’s pulled on a black blazer, which flares at her waist, and painted her nails a glossy royal blue for good measure. George just put in silver cufflinks.

“They can’t find Lee, so I asked Lafayette to take his shift tonight on the deck,” he tells her, putting his phone away.

She gives him a half smile. “You know Alex wanted that, George.”

“I know, and I’m not going to give him special treatment because of what goes on between us outside of the workplace,” he responds coolly. “He understands that. Lafayette is far more qualified for working VIP at this point. We don’t need someone who will start bar fights with our best paying customers.”

“He’s a dancer, though,” Martha states, raising an eyebrow. “It’s not special treatment if he’s _worked_ for that position.”

“I agree,” George says with a shrug. “But he didn’t. Alexander is more useful to us at the general bars. He’s casual, he’s comfortable. People will want to talk to him; I mean, he’s cute, and he’s smart. Not everyone has money to experience that at the VIP bar. Lafayette has a more ‘bourgeoisie’ approach, the way he carries himself. Alexander is more laid-back in his mannerisms. I don’t want him to get uncomfortable.”

“You’ve really thought this through?” Martha asks, smiling. “Good luck explaining that to him.”

He’s beyond certain that he’ll need it. Even if Alexander doesn’t whine about George’s decision directly, he’s sure he’s taken it personally, nonetheless. He’ll have to talk to him about it, of course. But right now, he’s more interested in making sure this night flows smoothly. He can see the people clamoring outside, just as Alexander had warned him, earlier today. They arrive after ten minutes, and begin to run through everything one last time. The dancers have changed into their outfits, conversing at the bar with some of the bartenders, who are busy cleaning glasses and wiping down their stations. Laurens and Hercules are busy arm wrestling on some of the tables, while Alexander flips through channels on the plasma wall-TV. The chefs are preparing the simpler meals in bulk, chattering happily with Angelica and Peggy through the small order window. Eliza is well-versed in French, George notices, as she speaks to Lafayette, straightening out one of the decks.

He feels Martha loop her arm into his, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Look at what we’ve made, George,” she tells him, and he does. What he sees is people they’ve gathered off the streets about to do something amazing. Something game-changing. He sees now that Martha didn’t want to hire professionals, she wanted to build them. She remade this building with practically her own two hands, though he wouldn’t forget the work his boys put in, in an effort to see this become the most astonishing building on the East Coast. So, maybe purchasing that foreclosed piece of shit was worth it if it meant he was going to meet the most brilliant young man who’s made him feel more comfortable in his own skin, gotten the opportunity to change so many lives, seen Martha this happy, or built history in an abandoned lot.

He gathers the entire crew, with Alexander on his left, and Martha on his right. They join hands in a circle at 9:45pm, reciting a speech he’s memorized—one Alexander had written for him, based off of his ideas and emotions he couldn't convey. He squeezes Alexander’s hand in his own, happy to feel that he squeezes back. He mouths him ‘good luck.’

“First of all, I want to thank each and every one of you for committing your time for the past month. Some of you have been here longer. It’s been hard. It’s been stressful. I know. But you all stuck it out, busted your asses, and found a way. Never thought you’d experience bartending-boot camp, eh, Hector?” There’s laughter, agreeing amongst themselves at the backbreaking effort they'd put forth in George and Martha's parody bootcamps and harsh training conditions. “We’ve had fun together, let’s keep it that way. This doesn’t have to become some ruthless business-thing. We can be friends, and we can be family. We’re a team. We don’t know how long this will last, but we haven’t even opened this place yet and _already_ , we have three awards on that wall over there.” They break hands to clap. George smiles, and they rejoin. “Crazy, isn’t it?” There’s murmurs of surprised agreement, like they've just thought about it, themselves. “To think we’ve made it this far? I know I had my doubts in the beginning,” he says to Martha. “But this—this is amazing. And Martha and I are _so_ honored to have the staff that we have, so dedicated and hardworking. Your efforts do not go unnoticed. I promise all of you have potential to grow. Maybe this is what you want to do with the rest of your life. Maybe this is just the stepping stone to get where you want to go _later_. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is this moment, right here, and right now. Now let’s do this.” He claps his hands once, and it echos through the club. "Break." They disperse to their places. He meets Alexander's eyes in the midst of it, flashes him a smile. 

"Here we go."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOO DANG!!!! That inspirational speech from GW was so tear jerking. It was more Chris-Jackson-Inspirational, though. Also, Lee is hiding out for some reason(?) unknown. Hope you enjoyed somma that HamWash (or Whamilton ?) there will be more to come very soon (❁´‿`❁)*✲ﾟ*  
> you know where to find me! ( or at least I think you do? The link is below lol )  
> [holla at me!!!!](http://romaas-aesthetics.tumblr.com/)


	4. Thomas Jefferson's Coming Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Attempting self-help leads to self-doubt.”  
> “Says who?” George leans on the back of the chair with his elbow, swiveling gently.  
> “You’re looking at the all-time champion of attempted-but-failed self-help, buddy,” Alexander flashes him a smile, capping the Gatorade.  
> “Googling symptoms doesn’t count,” George reminds him.

September passes quickly. _Mount Vernon_ is an instant success, which isn’t really a shocker to anyone. The employees seem pleased with production and income, which is far more than they were expecting to receive for their work. The baron never did show up, George noticed, but he did send Pierre to send his regards. Alexander was not sorry von Steuben decided not to show. Though he prefers to exist outside of social groups, George and Martha circulate each night to welcome patrons and inquire their experience thus far. They get a lot of feedback, which George is convinced Martha lives for. She’s a trooper. She explains to him that she is basically Tinker Bell, and needs applause to live. He informs her that he isn’t sure what a “Tinker-bell” is, but he can assure her she’d be just fine without public approval.

Against his better judgement, George allows Lee to stay on the VIP staff, even after the stunt he pulled on the first night. He reckons they can’t afford to be losing people before they even get ankle-deep in the frenzy. It would look bad for the press, and it would be quite counter-productive, unless they found a replacement. So, with a short lecture on the importance of calling in, George leaves Lee be, only to find that weeks later, he disappears, _again_ , without a word to anyone.

“Why is he still _here_?” Alexander demands, to no one in particular, pacing around the Washingtons’ kitchen, bouncing a tennis ball off the dark oak-paneled floors. “I mean, what does he even do for us, anymore? No one fucking wants him! He’s _unreliable_. At the first sign of danger, he retreats back into his little invisible fucking hole in the ground, and we’re left on our asses!”

“Language, Alex,” Martha mumbles from her iPad, scrolling through the articles covering _Mount Vernon_. They’ve gotten some pretty good reviews on Google Maps, and Yelp.

Burr sips his apple juice sparingly. “Lee isn’t what _any_ of us want right now, but we can’t have Marquis doing two jobs.”

Alexander bites his tongue to prevent blurting anything out, but is cut off, anyway, by Lafayette, perched on the counter, proclaiming, “ _Burr_ , your concern is endearing. But I am sure that there would be no problem if _Jambon_ filled in for Lee. At least until we found someone to permanently fill his position, _non_?” There’s disapproval in his voice. “I do not need your expertise in gauging what I can and cannot handle. Let us—how do _les Américains_ fashion it?—do not have a cow.”

“I’ve never heard any American say that in my life,” John snickers.

“It is right here!” Lafayette snaps, holding up the copy of _French-to-American English Idiom Dictionary: Twelfth Edition with Pictures!_ he’d received for his birthday. “So do not—ah, what is it?—” he consults the dictionary at a marked page, “ _piss in my cornflakes_.”

“You might wanna use that book in moderation,” Burr mumbles, earning a response muttered in French from the annoyed Lafayette. 

“Look,” John says. “Lee isn’t even _useful_ to us at this point.”

“Yea, he’s better off in his ‘hole in the ground.’” Hercules uses air quotes. He’s sitting with John, shuffling his sock-clad feet on the floor. The man’s a giant. But not bigger than George.

“He’s just causing _us_ trouble,” John doubles back, glancing over at Martha, challenging her _I-hired-him-speech_ from August. “If we fire him, we can have a fresh start.”

“On top of that, he’s not even doing his job right when he _is_ there!” Alexander complains. “Let me show you that I can—”

“No.” George says firmly. Hercules and John exchange worrisome glances. Lafayette’s shoulders slump in defeat. Alexander forces a closed-mouth smile, nods in understanding. Martha looks up from her articles. Burr busies himself with the glass of apple juice in front of him. The air is tense, now that George has outright said it. So he goes on. “You are more useful on A Bar, Alexander. You get nice tips, don’t you?”

“Tips?” Alexander snaps. “ _Tips_? You’re concerned about the _tips_ I get, instead of the _career_ I could have?”

“My point is, people _like_ you. You’re a magnet to them. If you’re getting nice tips, you’re doing good work. Good work equals good customer service. Which equals good reviews. Which equals more patrons. Which equals more tips,” he motions his hand in a continuous circle as he talks. “Do you see where I’m going? And on top of that, Lafayette has far more experience than you in this field, Alexander. You can’t be offended because you don’t get promotions fast enough.”

“You’re saying I’m underqualified.” It’s more of a statement, less of a question, but George answers, anyway.

“I’m saying a number of things. You need to be _patient_ , Alexander.” He crosses his arms. “By no means are we trying to hinder you. But you have to understand why Martha and I have made the decisions we made.”

It ends there, with Alexander leaving politely, face a bright red in shame, and John chasing after him awkwardly. Alexander’s attempt at excusing himself with dignity is heartbreaking, so George looks away to spare the boy at least some of his shattered self-esteem.

Hercules and Lafayette don’t say anything antagonizing to George, but it seems like Burr’s intentions are coming from elsewhere. “Do you really think he can’t do it, or are there some other underlying reasons you don’t want him to work at VIP level?”

“Excuse me?” George raises an eyebrow. Martha seems just as offended.

He leans in. “I don’t mean to accuse you of having under-the-table influences, but it does seem strategical for you to be put in this position. Deciding, on no real grounds, who has what job, and who moves where.” He sips the apple juice leisurely and George restrains himself from smacking the glass out of his hand and demanding he directly say what he’s alluding to. But he stays perfectly seated, perfectly calm.

Lafayette busies himself with searching for ‘under-the-table’ in his book, but Hercules is staring at Burr with just as much confusion as George is.

Martha says, “Hercules, Marquis? You all can head home for the night.” After some slight protest, they get up, and she walks them out, leaving Burr and George alone. They don’t resume speaking until George hears the heavy front door swing shut, and Martha’s heels clicking as she reappears in the kitchen.

“Now, I don’t intend—” Burr begins, but George interrupts him.

“Drop the niceties, Burr, that’s exactly what you’re doing. Skip the song and dance and tell me like a man.”

“Right. Well, it just seems like you’re using your power advantage over Hamilton to make him ‘work’ for the position that he wants. But no matter how hard he works, you’re never going to give him that promotion until he gives you what you _want_ from him.”

“Are you saying I’m—?”

“Manipulating Alexander. Yes. I’ve seen you two together.”

“Your word against mine. You have a sick, presumptuous mind, young man.” He wisely says nothing else.

“George—”

“We are _not_ on a first name basis.”

“My apologies, Washington. But let’s be honest. We both know what he does for a living, outside of _Mount Vernon_.” He leans in, and whispers very slowly, “And between you and me, your, ah, _lifestyle_ doesn’t really help the situation.” 

The room is silent as George stares down Burr. No one says anything. Martha’s even silent at this point.

Then, suddenly, she says, “Leave.” He does, with a sly smile.

When George and Martha are alone again, he slumps into a seat and massages his temples with his elbows resting on the counter. Martha speaks first.

“John was right. He’s shady, isn’t he?”

“That’s not what I’m worried about. Burr has no real ties to the press. If he makes an accusation like that, it’ll be his fifteen minutes, but I’ll deny it.”

“And what if he has proof?” Martha demands. “You said you were careful.”

“I _was_ careful. He must be speculating. We’ve given each other looks in _Mount Vernon_ but that’s about it. Maybe that’s all he claims he saw. We’ve never done _anything_ explicit that wasn’t in a secure setting.”

“You need to tell me everything right now, George Washington.” Her voice is firm.

“A few touches in a restaurant? A suggestive look, maybe? I don’t know, Alexander likes to tease, but it’s always very subtle.”

“Oh my _lord_.”

“Nothing extreme, Martha,” he promises. “I would _never_ let it escalate in public, and he knows about the boundaries.”

“Burr’s a snake. We should fire him.”

“He comes up with this theory that I’m manhandling Alexander in the backroom six ways to Sunday, and then we fire him? That looks kind of suspicious. He could go to the press with that one,” George grumbles. Martha sighs.

“How would Alexander react to your public denial of anything between the two of you?”

“It’s a _sex scandal_ , Martha. And I’m a congressman who’s planning on running for governor.” He sits back in his chair, watching Martha watch him.

“ _Exactly_ , George. You’re going to be running for governor. And what does he mean he knows about your ‘lifestyle?’” She asks suddenly. “He means he knows you’re—?”

“Gay?”

She’s silent.

“I don’t know what proof he could have.” He gets up to empty Burr’s glass.

“An angry ex?”

“You mean Friedrich.”

“You two had a fall out, right?” Her voice is quiet.

“He wouldn’t do something like this. And what would he have to gain from telling _Burr_ , of all people?” George turns to her. “Von Steuben is a powerful guy, but he’s not into politics, Martha. We agreed to keep it quiet. It was a fling in grad school.”

“Okay, but what about anyone else?” she asks. “Tench? What about the team who escorted me during your campaigns? Didn’t you have a fling with my lead escort, Baylor?”

“Tench wouldn’t put himself out of the closet to anyone, especially not Burr. Baylor is in Barbados.” He doesn’t explain why he knows this.

“You know stuff like this can degrade your reputation,” she retorts.

“So you’re telling me to find a way to shut Burr up.” It’s a statement.

Martha shrugs. “Men like Burr don’t come to dinner if they don’t have an appetite. What do you know about him?”

“He’s clean,” George mumbles, swirling the chair gently. “Checked his records. No paper trail. Kid from New Jersey, orphaned, moved around a lot. Nothing.”

“So he’s harassing a congressman and forming accusations out of thin air,” Martha mumbles. “He grew up with the inferiority complex. So now he wants superiority and power as an adult.”

“He wouldn’t just pull a stunt like that unless he had hard evidence,” George groans.

“You said he didn’t,” there’s alarm in her voice.

“You know everything that I do.” He’s trying to play it cool. He can’t blow up, not right now. And not at Martha. “But, what about Alexander?”

“He’ll come around, George,” Martha says, walking around the kitchen bar to sit in front of him. “He knows you want the best for him, he’s just—He’s _Alex_.”

“I know, but I don’t—” George is not good with introspection. “He’s—I mean, Martha, _look_ at him.”

“I know, sweetheart.” She kisses his knuckles. “Let’s go to bed.” It’s Sunday night, the only night they all get off from _Mount Vernon_. But George has a few bills to read before Tuesday. Not that it will take him long. He just needs something to focus on, other than whatever’s happened here. He would call and apologize to Alexander, but George’s ability to communicate effectively is being obstructed by his irritation and confusion. He didn’t _mean_ to make Alexander feel like he hasn’t been working hard enough. He remembers the rant from the night at _Maquillage_. As far as he knows, he hasn’t been unkind. “It’s going to be fine, George,” she continues, and he actually somehow believes her. Martha is his best friend. She always has been. So he agrees to go to bed with her and pulls her close, falling asleep against her neck.

* * *

When the temperature begins to drop in the beginning of October, it isn’t gradual. During the second week of October, it’s already plummeted to the twenties, and the heating units in the Capitol are being replaced. There was some mix-up between September and August, so maintenance waited until the last minute. So, he’s bundled up at his desk in his wool overcoat and scarf, typing rapidly in an attempt to get his work done without burning too much energy.

Conservation. That was the word he’d needed that night. He’d wanted to _conserve_ his Alexander. It’s been on his mind since the argument happened. The idea that he’d possibly made him feel inferior. Alexander said he’d gotten over it, but George knows he hasn’t forgotten it. People don’t just _forget_ when their self-worth is being compromised for the bigger picture. And he accepts this, for both his and Alexander’s sake.

But, then there’s Burr. He isn’t sure how much he knows, exactly, but George and Martha have discussed it amongst themselves, and tried to explain it to Alexander, who took it better than they thought he would.

There’s a phone call to his direct cell on the same day the heating units go out. A name he hasn’t seen in a while pops up onto the screen. His business rival, and long-time frenemy, Thomas Jefferson. He answers unctuously, in his most casual drawl, “Thomas,”

“ _Bonjour_ , George,” he hears from the other end in a silky southern accent. The Americanized-French doesn’t suit him. His cringes. “I just called to tell you I’ve ordered limo service.”

“Ah, so Sally’s finally going to prom?” George inquires snidely, before he can stop himself. While it might seem hypocritical, the man has an unhealthy marriage with his former housekeeper who has been suspiciously placed as junior secretary and personal assistant to Jefferson, who just so happens to be roughly 30 years older than her. He’d taken interest in her long before she was a legal adult, but he never did anything _illegal_ , as far as anyone could say. Not that Sally would tell, even if he had. But still, George hates to be a hypocrite. Thomas just walked right into that one.

“Ha, ha,” it’s monotonous. “No. I’m coming _home_ , Washington. Thursday.” Then, he says, “Sally, be a lamb, darling, and open this for me?” There’s static rustling. “Ah. Okay, so, right,” he’s speaking to George again. “Thursday. 10:30pm, I’m having a surprise welcome-home party at my residence. I had my maids put everything together, Sally helped them. If you’d like, you can bring Martha and the kids along,”

“Kids are in college, but I’ll be sure to make an effort,” George mumbles into his cell, spinning idly in his swivel chair.

“Now,” Jefferson says, redirecting the conversation, “You and Martha have put together your resources and started a nightclub?”

“Yes,” George is a bit taken aback. He refrains from asking how he knows this. Instead he says in his most nonchalant voice, “We opened in August.”

“And how’s that working out for you?”

“It’s working,” George replies dryly.  “Business is good. Martha’s pleased.”

“You’ve always been hard to please.”

“I’m not easily impressed.”

“That’s wond—oh! My flight is boarding as we speak—Sally, grab my scarf—you’re expected, George,” Jefferson reminds him. “10:30pm. I’ll see you there.” The line clicks without warning.

George puts his phone down. He’s sure he can come up with some bullshit excuse to miss Jefferson’s party. He’s not even sure why they feign friendliness. It’s evident that they’d rather not talk when they’re in each other’s’ presence. It gets a bit tedious to be around Jefferson, anyway. He’s far smarmier than that Aaron Burr kid.

 _Burr_. His jaw tightens at the thought. He’s sure he can find some dirt on that godforsaken snake. _Something_. He isn’t perfect, no matter how straight and white his teeth are or how strong his jawline is. Him and his fucking apple juice.

“Mr. Washington, your wife is on line 3,” Ben says from the door, snapping him out of his thought. “She says it’s urgent,”

“Great, thanks, Ben,” George says oddly, picking up the phone, pressing 3. “Martha, it’s George. Is everything alright?”

“Hello, sir.” It’s not Martha on the other line. But he could recognize that ‘sir’ anywhere.

“ _Alexander_?” he hisses into the line. He checks to see if anyone is standing at his door as he continues, “Why are you calling during work hours? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” there’s a chuckle, and George remembers how it felt against his skin. He’s warm all over, suddenly. “When do you get off today?”

“Why?” George asks, penning through his agenda on his desk. He prefers old-fashioned hard copies. Computers are overrated. He discovers that he gets off at 6pm today, like most people in an office setting.

“Because Martha’s asked me to check in to see if you’re going to be there tonight. She has an appointment with an architect at 5pm.” So it’s not him flirting or being cute. It’s business. He tries not to sound too disappointed.

“How early does she need me?”

“Well, I’m going in at 4pm. I’m handling some of the timesheets and financial chaos in the office that we didn’t get caught up to. You and I are going to have to talk about these…deposits so we don’t have confusion with the banks. I’ll be there alone.” Ah, Alexander. So professional when he needs to be. So sly. So he is flirting, after all. Good to know. “Eliza’s coming in to set up a party at 9pm—” he flips a page. “But because it’s a Wednesday, we’re opening at 11pm. So—I don’t know if you’ll be able to come in or anything. I think Martha wanted to ask just in case she couldn’t make it—”

“No, I’ll be there,” George replies decisively. “Tell her I get off at 6:00pm today and I’ll be there.”

“Alright, perfect.” George can practically _hear_ him smirking. “I’ll let her know.”

George puts the phone back down onto the receiver, and goes back to his emails. His mind wanders, though, like it usually does when Alexander teases him like that. It wasn’t him calling to give him a schedule of the day; that was him calling to tell George they have a few hours alone together. But whatever happens _cannot_ happen in _Mount Vernon_. Especially not with Burr making the accusations he’s making. But he’s sure Alexander is aware of this, so he continues to read over propositions that will be voted on soon. 

It’s 1:00pm when maintenance decides that the Capitol is not insulated enough and will not receive heat until the central heating unit has been repaired, so they give this information to George. The temperature has dropped into the teens, so the staff is sent home for the day, at 1:15pm. Ben stays, though, to help George out. However, George doesn’t leave until 3:30pm, knowing Alexander will arrive at _Mount Vernon_ at 4pm. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to swing by a bit early, he thinks. He hasn’t spent time with Alexander alone since August.

Thanks to traffic, it’s a bit after 4:30pm when George finally does arrive. The familiar building is dimly lit, next to no lights are on. His heels still click on the buffed and polished floor as he melts in the heat—which Alexander has turned up, due to the weather.

“Washington?” He hears Alexander’s voice from down the hall. He removes his coat as he walks, finding his boy on the phone in a desk chair, in an office George never knew existed, with a clipboard in his lap, clicking a pen in his left hand. He gestures for George to wait a moment as he tries to finish up the conversation. “No—the property value couldn’t have decreased, Mr. Yogota, her renovations made it—the _evaluation_ , sir, claimed that the building was in terrible condition. Her remodeling was necessary for maintaining the best possible condition.” He’s silent as he listens, giving George an exaggerated eye roll at whoever’s on the phone. “No, no, _no_. I told you, everything was out of Mrs. Washington’s pocket.” No one else is around, and George likes to see Alexander focused and serious. Angry, even. He leans on the doorframe to admire the view. “No, _you’re_ not listening. The bank did not foot on repairs. The condition the building was left in was described as ‘poor.’” He’s obviously trying to keep his voice calm. “Well, that’s what it says on the sheet. She needed to repair every wire in the building. The plumbing, the A/C and heating units, everyth—huh? It wasn’t, Mr. Yogota. I’m telling you facts.”

His office is just as messy as George would have suspected if he’d known he even had one. Papers are crammed everywhere, crates full of binders are stacked in a corner. And for some reason, there’s a helium tank on the other side of the room. He walks around, finds that the office is expanded into a bullpen. There’s a computer in every corner, paired with more paperwork. He didn’t know nightclubs had office settings. Interesting.

“Of course, you too, Mr. Yog—huh? Oh.” A false laugh. “Right. I’ll let her know. Thank you for your time.” The phone slams back into the receiver. “Fucking _hell_ ,” he yells at the top of his lungs, dropping his head into his hands. “I hate dealing with people.”

George doesn’t bother to reprimand him for language in his own office. “You’re a bartender,” he reminds him of the irony.

“Mixologist,” Alexander corrects him with an impish smile. “That was the previous owner of this building.”

“What’d he want?” George inquires, observing a daisy in a pot on the window sill.

“I don’t know, some BS accusation about the property value decreasing because of the renovations Martha did. Like I said, increasing property value is what a lot of people aim for with foreclosure. Martha was investing a lot to profit a lot.” He looks around, spreads his hands in a ‘you understand’ gesture. “Looks like it paid off.”

Well, he’s not wrong. “I didn’t know nightclubs had offices,” George mumbles, further observing. There’s a book tossed on top of a filing cabinet— _10% Happier: How I Tamed the Voice in My Head, Reduced Stress Without Losing My Edge, and Found a Self-Help That Actually Works_. He looks at Alexander upon reading the title.

“That’s Burr’s,” he waves it away with a dismissive hand. “I swear that man has a midlife crisis every day.”

“You could stand to read it,” George mumbles, sitting backwards in a swivel chair, which creaks under his weight. He looks down at it, in confusion and subtle embarrassment.

“Don’t worry, it’s Eliza’s. It does that, which is why I think she went out today to look at news ones. Just make sure your weight stays even. You might tip over.” He sips his Gatorade, looking away from George’s crotch innocently. George decides it’s good to know this won’t be all work and no play. “And I prefer to white-knuckle my existential crises, thank you very much. Attempting self-help leads to self-doubt.”  

“Says who?” George leans on the back of the chair with his elbow, swiveling gently.

“You’re looking at the all-time champion of attempted-but-failed self-help, buddy,” Alexander flashes him a smile, capping the Gatorade.  

“Googling symptoms doesn’t count,” George reminds him.

“Ah, wise words. I’ll keep that in mind. Now, in the meantime,” he turns and scoops up a pile of paperwork. “Insurance.”

“What about it?” George asks, furrowing his thick eyebrows.

“Unemployment, medical, disability, liquor liability, workers compensation.”

“All covered.”

“What about the property’s insurance?” Alexander is reading off of a pink sheet of paper. “Building insurance, utility interruption?”

“I’m sure that’s all there.”

“We’d have to check to be sure. Some of this is required by the district.”

“Are you hungry?” George asks suddenly.

Alexander looks up, confusion passing over his soft features, but then, he says, “I was starting to think you’d never ask. Let’s get outta here.”

* * *

George has a slight idea as to what he wants to do for the evening. Alexander is rambling about some investment quota, but George can’t follow that thought. It’s hard to get the boy to focus on one thing at a time—unless, of course, he’s under George. And that is enough to crave him even more.

“I mean, do brokers even _know_ what kind of pressure that puts on investors?” He’s ranting, hands synchronized with his words, exaggerated gestures as he’s talking. “I read a book in high school about the stock market—strongly recommended, by the way, lemme tell ya—wait, don’t most brokers have investments of their own? God, this economy’s so screwed up—anyway, like I was saying—”

George doesn’t even pretend to listen. He occupies himself with driving, letting his boy fume and lecture beside him. This is nice, he thinks. To be with Alexander this way. No work, no pressure. Nothing terrible threatening to expose their relationship, or whatever this is. Just the bitter cold and Alexander’s piety.

But, then again, he has to keep Burr in line. Burr evades his thoughts in a matter of moments.

“Washington?”

He’s brought to his senses again by Alexander saying his name, uttering a, “Huh?”

“What are you thinking about?”

He thinks about how he should answer this. Should he just say it? Or would that worry his Alexander and possibly spoil the mood? “Work. There’s this bill—”

“I call bullshit,” Alexander shakes his head.

“Excuse me?” George turns to look at him, but returns his attention to the road. He can’t even deny it, himself. He sighs. “Yea, you’re right.”

“What’s got you all stressed?” he asks, adjusting the knobs for heat. “Is it this whole stock market thing? Because rest assured, I feel your pain.”

George laughs, a rare treasure for Alexander, who smiles. “No,” George sobers, but the smile lingers. “This thing with Burr. There’s something going on here. More than we realize and we need to be careful.”

“I know,” Alexander mumbles, crossing his arms. “I saw Thomas Jefferson’s coming home.”

“What?” George glances at him. “How?”

“There was an article posted,” Alexander says simply. “Says he’s arriving on Thursday. Having this huge thing,”

“Jefferson is that one kid who throws a house party every weekend. No one’s impressed with his garden parties anymore,” George steers Nelson into a small burger joint. “He invited me and the wife to the celebration.” He shifts into parking, takes out the key, and prepares to get out.

“Are you thinking about going?” The question is a tough one. It stops him, and he peers skeptically at Alexander.

“I’m expected.”

“Are you thinking about _going_?” His tone is different when he repeats the question, like he knows what to expect from George, but George doesn’t even know what to expect from George. This kid knows him so goddamned well.

“I don’t know.”

He clicks his tongue, and George realizes that _that_ was the answer he was anticipating. “Aha. You should go. Might turn out better than expected,”

“We’re not friends.” It’s curt. Indifferent. “He invited me to be polite.”

“If it was only an empty gesture, why are you ‘expected?’” Alexander rationalizes, getting out of the car. He slings his satchel over his shoulder. “He’s up to something.”

“What makes you so sure?” George leads them to the glass doors. He isn’t very concerned with bringing Alexander to restaurants in broad daylight. He’s the financial advisor to the fledgling nightclub. It’s completely appropriate, he thinks.

“The guy spends about a year in Paris, on some diplomatic travel mission, and comes home throwing this huge self-glorifying bash? He’s a congressman chasing a name he’s made for himself, sir,” Alexander says, passing by as George holds the door for him.

“I don’t know if you’ve met him, but throwing self-glorifying-bashes is sort of Jefferson’s pastime,” he mutters over his shoulder, moving to lead Alexander in a protective way. He thinks it’s nice how Alexander trails behind him in a stride that matches his own, like he knows what’s on George’s mind without him having to say it.

* * *

Thursday rolls around. Jefferson is greeted on his arrival at Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport with fresh press and an entourage ready. A lot of bling for just a congressman-on-a-diplomatic-mission, George thinks. He isn’t impressed; figures Jefferson would pull this.

It’s 10pm, and George is dressed in his tux, with Martha fixing her hair in the vanity mirror. She’s in a deep violet gown, which ties over one shoulder, allowing a ruffle of fabric to hang gracefully. George doesn’t party. Last time he partied, he bought foreclosed property and an explosive twink with doe eyes and daddy issues. The latter isn’t so bad, he decides, fastening his cuffs.

“Ready, darling?” Martha asks from her bathroom. She emerges putting silver earrings in, still in bare feet. George has her silver heels dangling from his fingers, waiting for her as she grabs her clutch and phone, checking it.

“Let’s roll.”

The party is just as George figured it would be. There are pretentious columns framing the door, which irritates George. The valet is annoying him, too. Some of Jefferson’s friends give George a once-over, scrutinize Martha. He wants to punch all of them. Everything is annoying him. Alexander had better be right, making this worth his while. Right now, _Mount Vernon_ is open, and the bar is being run without either of them present for the first time ever. Martha’s expressed her anxiety, but George reminds her that the Schuylers will certainly keep the boys in line. That seemed to ease her nerves.

Now Jefferson is approaching him with a grin, a cocktail in one hand, his other one fanned out in a regal manner, cutting through the air in a swift motion. George forces a pleasant smile, Martha grinning.

“Thomas,” she says first, and he kisses her on cheek politely. “How was Paris?”

“I’ll tell you like I told the others—it’s good to be back in Virginia,” he laughs. His laugh sounds like any other politician’s laugh. It makes George’s teeth grind. “Martha, you look _gorgeous_ as always. And Georgie! How ya been?” George has his hand out for a handshake, but Jefferson grabs it, and uses it to pull him into a previously unforeseen hug. Jefferson has _never_ called him ‘Georgie’ before, so Alexander was right. He’s definitely up to something.

The hug is extremely inappropriate in his book, but George doesn’t dare shove him off the way he’d like to. Instead, he pats Jefferson’s back once, twice, and is mercifully released. “It’s been well, Congressman Thomas.”

“Can I get either of you a drink?” he offers. To be polite, Martha says,

“I’d love a Cosmopolitan, Thomas, thank you.”

“Booker’s,” George says. “Straight.”

“Bingo,” Jefferson fires a finger-gun at them playfully. “I’ll return shortly. Don’t go anywhere!” his voice is sing-songy over the orchestra ensemble.

“I hate him,” George grumbles once Jefferson has left.

“I know,” Martha turns to him, smoothing his lapels down affectionately. “Don’t let him get under your skin, sweetheart.”

He nods, giving her a small peck on the cheek. They wait around, spotting different members of Congress and exchanging information and anecdotes about each one.

Suddenly, a large, familiar man is in front of them, dressed in formal attire, holding a rocks glass and a cocktail glass. George can’t shake this oddness, of experiencing this before, but accepts the glass gingerly, eyes on this man. He’s wracking brain, trying to figure out where he’s seen this guy.

“Hi, I’m sorry, Congressman Thomas got caught up somewhere, he asked me to bring you your drinks. Cosmopolitan and a Booker’s?”

“Straight,” George supplies helpfully.

He eyes George for a beat, then asks, “Have we met?”

“I can’t say that we have,” he tips the glass up to his lips, and it hits him like bricks when the man smiles. James, from Komi. _Jesus Christ, he works for Jefferson and he saw me having lunch with Alexander and he just barely recognizes me. Holy shit_. “Thank you, sir.” He raises his glass in salutatory, and pulls Martha away.

He paces her outside to the patio. His heart is jackhammering in his chest, and he thinks he might pass out.

“George?” Martha asks cautiously when they’re outside. “George, honey, what’s wrong?”

“The waiter,” George says slowly. He sounds far calmer than he actually is. The Perks of Being George Washington. Well, except for right now. There are no perks to being George Washington right now. Not with some huge sex scandal looming over his head. “He recognized me. I was on date with Alexander, and he was waiting tables at the restaurant we went to. His name was James. And Alexander kept touching my hands, he was a bit drunk,”

“You know you need to be careful when you go out after work hours,” Martha hisses, careful not to draw attention.

“It was _one o’ clock in the afternoon_!” George fires back in a whisper. Someone passes by, and he and Martha flash identical smiles. Then, “We split a fucking _salad_ , Martha.”

“James what?”

“I don’t know. Would you go around telling people your first and last name if you were a waitress?” Being in potentially career-threatening situations really seem to bring out his inner smartass, it seems.

After a moment of thought, Martha sets her cocktail down, checks her phone, and says, “Track him down. We’ll find out what he knows.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [here](http://romaas-aesthetics.tumblr.com/) if you need me! (◕‿◕✿)


	5. A Couple of Forevers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then, he feels Alexander’s soft hands on his shoulder blades. His fingertips are cool against George’s hot skin. He sucks in a breath when he feels Alexander’s lips press to his deltoid. “Let me make it up to you, sir. I’ve been a bad boy.”

“He _what_?”

“He was over the bar top before I could grab him,” Eliza’s saying frantically. “He had the guy by the collar by the time I’d gotten around. Herc managed to restrain him, but I think he broke the guy’s jaw.”

“I’m on my way.” He hangs up. “Houston, we have a problem.”

Martha looks over her shoulder as George taps her, nodding subtly to the entrance. She turns back to the women she’s entertaining, setting down her glass. “Dolley, Maria, I’m sorry, I have to go.” They smile politely, chattering that they understand, inviting her over for cocktails and such; the casual etiquette of women, it seems. When George manages to pry her away, he mutters next to her ear,

“Alexander beat a guy up for grabbing Lafayette’s rear,” he exchanges glances with her. “Elizabeth told me she thinks he broke the guy’s jaw.” He’s not sure what to think of it. The first time they leave the kids alone, and Alexander tries to kill a man.

“He’s really got some issues.” She mutters.

He shrugs. That may or may not be true. “The Marquis has had some unresolved problems with sexual assault before. And I think Alexander can empathize with him. Which is why he reacted the way he did.”

“Should I call a lawyer?”

“That’s like screaming ‘ _it_ _wasn’t_ _me_ ’ before anyone accuses you of the crime, Martha,” George says, signaling the valet with the wave of the hand. He has a plan. George _always_ has a plan. “Let’s just try to sort all of this out.”

It’s after 1:00am when they arrive at _Mount Vernon_ and the flashing streaks of silver and blue police lights aren’t particularly inviting. George parks Nelson and arrives on the scene with Martha on his arm. Upon entering, he can see the club has been cleared, aside from staff and witnesses, Lafayette standing off to the sideline, speaking to a few officers, who are scribbling down notes. He’s in an oversized _SECURITY_ jacket, Hercules’, George assumes (correctly). He can’t see Alexander, but Martha tugs on his arm, pointing in the opposite direction. He’s in handcuffs, talking to a man wearing a uniform, so George tells Martha to wait, as he approaches the two.

Alexander’s eyes light up when he sees George. But the man turns, blocking him with broad shoulders. His nametag says _Paine_.

“Excuse me, Officer,” George says, tilting his head slightly. And, perhaps even innocently, he asks, “What’s the problem here?”

“The problem,” Paine begins, narrowing his eyes, “Is that you’re on my crime scene. Who’re you?”

“The owner of this bar.” He ignores the accusing tone in the man’s voice. “Congressman George Washington.”

There’s a beat of silence before Paine asks, “Do you know this kid?” he gestures over his shoulder with the jerk of his thumb.

“I do,” George says simply. He knows Alexander hates it when he’s undermined because of his age.

“Well, he attacked a man, earlier tonight.”

George gives Alexander a brief look. It’s more of a glare. “Handcuffs are a bit excessive, officer.” He knows Martha must be outraged. “Can we do this without the excess? It’s bad for business.”

“Belligerent bartenders are bad for business.” He turns to Alexander. “You been drinkin’, kid?”

“No, sir.”

Paine scrutinizes him, and then George. “Who’d you say you were, again?”

“Congressman George Was—”

“No, who are you to this kid?”

Alexander shifts impatiently at the word ‘kid.’

“His boss.”

“Where were you when all this was happening?” He flips open a notepad and clicks a pen to begin writing.

George studies him, and with a quick glance at Alexander, he asks, “Officer, would you excuse me for just a moment?”

He doesn’t waste time, slipping out through the back, scrolling through a list his list of contacts. Upon finding the target, he taps to make the call. It rings twice, and George is opt to hang up and try again, before there’s a click and,

“Hello?” It’s gruff, and unappreciated.

“It’s Washington.” His voice is low. “You still owe me that favor from last spring.”

 There’s shuffling. “Do you have any idea what time it is, _connard_?”

“Louis, I need you, right now, to handle this investigation.” George is suddenly wondering why so many French-speakers are in DC. “A friend of mine got into some serious trouble. Get him off the hook and wipe him clean.”

“What’s he done?” There’s more rustling. Louis is the equivalent of a king, George thinks, just in the manner he carries himself. Though, he’s heavily introverted and aloof at times. His wife, Marie, is the exact opposite. It’s ironic, how similar their marriages are.

“He’s a bartender. He assaulted a guy for harassing one of his coworkers.”

“You said _c’était mal, Georges,_ how bad is it?”

“The guy left on a stretcher.”

“Oh dear.” A pause. “I’m on my way.”

George returns to the club, pocketing his phone, searching for Alexander and Paine. He observes the officer from afar, a mess of dark hair and burning eyes. He strides carefully, watching Paine. He’s discussing something with another officer, so George sees his opportunity and murmurs next to Alexander’s ear, “I’m going to get you out of here. Just cooperate. I promise you’re gonna be fine.” With that, he moves to find Martha.

She’s talking with Eliza and John, who are happy to see George approaching.

“Well?” John asks. He has a cut on his lip, and his knuckles are bleeding. “What happened?”

“It’s going to be taken care of.” George isn’t entirely sure that it’s going to be, but it has to be. He’s got the king-like Commissioner Louis on his side. “Alexander’s going to be fine.”

“I fuckin’ told him,” John’s eyes are welling up with tears. Quite an emotional boy, George observes. “I told him to go home! He was having a bad night and next thing we know, he’s jumping the bar, beating a guy’s face in.”

“Don’t tell anyone what you just told me,” George raises an eyebrow. “Stick to the defending-Lafayette scenario.”

“That was the plan,” Eliza sighs with a weary gaze in Alexander’s general direction. “I think he needs to be put in anger management or something. That just… was not normal.”

George could stand to agree. The officers haven’t moved out by the time Louis has rolled around. It’s after 1:30am, and George is bitter with a familiar taste of exhaustion, but stands at attention when Louis enters vehemently. Martha shoots George a look when she sees he’s brought the Commissioner into it. He’s searching the bar, and when he finds George, he smiles kindly.

“George, we need to take this back to the station.” He guides them toward the exit again, to talk in privacy.

“Can we do it discreetly?” George asks, voice only low enough for the two of them. Louis lights a cigarette, and politely offers one to George, who declines. The guy’s pretty young to be police commissioner, but he’s sharp and refined. “We don’t need any bad press.” He’s sure the press has already found out about it, but no information could be leaked if none has been recorded.

“We have to be smart about this, _ami_. We cannot have too much information going too quickly. The public will suspect something, and then what will they think?” Louis responds casually, one hand dipping into his pocket. He takes a drag of the cigarette, and streams it through his teeth.

“I’m worried about the press too,” George rolls his neck, resisting the urge to rub at his tired eyes.

“If we get caught, we’re both going to federal prison.”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve done this and I know it wouldn’t be the last,” George raises an eyebrow.

A huff. A moment of silence. Another drag. Then, “We need to work on coverage. Tell me everything.”

They’re alone. George sighs. “Alexander, the boy in cuffs, is being taken into custody for repeatedly striking a man whom sexually harassed his friend. He broke his jaw and his nose, last I heard.”

“And what do you want me to do?”

“Find a way to make it disappear. This boy is _not_ going to jail.” He stops. Reconsiders. “Find a way.”

“This is going to turn into a matter of pressing charges,” Louis checks his watch, continues smoking. “A legal matter, _non_? George, your boy is in serious trouble.”

“I’m going to get the guy to drop the charges,” George says, watching the Commissioner consider. “I have my ways.”

“Then split the pear. I’ll take care of the paperwork. In the meantime, I will also handle the handcuffs,” Louis mumbles, turning back to the door, putting out the cigarette on the stone. He glances over his shoulder at George, and smiles. “So, what, is this kid your latest boytoy?”

George grimaces. “You know I hate it when you call them that.”

Louis considers it, then smiles at George with a small, knowing nod. “You always have had a taste for troublemakers.” Then he opens the door, and disappears inside.

George stands in the freezing October night for another moment. He stares up at the sky, trying to figure this all of this out in his steel-trap mind. Balancing Burr, Jefferson, this ‘James’ person, this nightclub, his relationship(?) with Alexander, and announcing his candidacy for Virginia governor are all adding to the stress. And now he’s trying to get Alexander off the hook. He rubs the back of his neck with a gloved hand and exhales slowly.

“Wash?” He looks over his shoulder, sees Laurens standing at the door, peaking out. “Can I come sit with you?” He isn’t sure how long he’s been standing there.

George shuffles over as John walks out to join him. They’re both staring at the sky now. It’s about 2am now, and the police lights are off. George’s mind begins to try to formulate plans and ideas to bury all of this, but John interrupts his thoughts with,

“When I get like you’re getting, Alex likes to ask me what I’m thinking.”

George glances over at him. “How am I ‘getting?’”

“Contemplative. Serious.” John shrugs. “What are you thinking?”

It would be inappropriate to tell John all of this, George thinks, it wouldn’t be fair to drag him into it. “It’s just work stuff.”

John nods slowly, then with a short glance at George, he says, “I can tell that you like him.”

George’s head snaps around, eyes wide. Jesus Christ is it that obvious? Laurens knows, Louis could tell. Maybe Burr wasn’t just pulling stuff out of the air, after all.

“Don’t worry, it isn’t blatantly obvious,” John smiles crookedly. George could beg to differ. “There’s just a way you get around him. You treat him gentler than most people do, but it doesn’t fit because you’re some hard-rock war vet, senator with the entire government in the palm of your hand. You just haven’t put it in your pocket yet.”

“I’m a congressman.”

“Whatever. My point is, I talked to Alex, and he said he was _really_ into you, man. He wouldn’t admit it, you know? But I know him. And I guess now it makes sense.” He’s rocking on his heels. “You’re into him, too.”

“Is that what the kids are calling it?” George mutters jokingly, averting his eyes to the sky again.

This earns a laugh from Laurens who, politely shrugs. “God, dude, it’s cold as shit out here, so I’m going inside.” He turns and leaves, leaving George staring at the sky again, just as he had been earlier.

* * *

He doesn’t sleep at all. He’d been trying to distract himself from everything going on around him. Louis decided to take Alexander to the precinct personally, claiming that it wouldn’t seem strange if it were a case this big. So in the meantime, George took everyone back to his and Martha’s home. It’s 4:17am and Martha is slumped onto his shoulder, still in her cocktail dress, snoring silently. Eliza and Lafayette are sitting across from him, zonked out on the couch, after promising they wouldn’t fall asleep. George doesn’t mind. John and Hercules have taken up to stretching out on the floor, but Burr remains seated at the kitchen bar, behind them.

The sun will be rising soon, and he’s almost certain Alexander has screwed up beyond redemption. Martha had taken George’s glass of bourbon, the one handled by James, and asked Louis to run the prints on it. It was a genius plan George hadn’t thought of. Maybe he’s losing his edge. He thinks about Burr’s self-help book. Louis had promised they’d get results within a few days, said he didn’t think it’d be a problem. But there is a problem. There’s _always_ a problem.

George has always been a calm guy. He’s always relaxed and composed even in stressful situations. But recently, that stress has gotten him in a chokehold. Martha stirs against him. First, he needs to figure out how to handle Burr. Then, he’ll deal with James. James could know a lot more than Burr, but Burr is a lot more of a threat if he finds out that George has pulled a few strings to get Alexander off the hook. More than a few strings. Okay, so a lot of strings. He rubs his temples and checks his phone again. He hears some clatter in the kitchen, but it doesn’t wake anyone. He turns to find Burr walking out, saying,

“I’m going to head home now. The wife is pretty concerned. And, hey, give my condolences to Hamilton, would you?” He’s surprisingly casual. It makes George’s blood boil.

“Of course.”

And then he leaves. George sits, staring after him.

* * *

“James Madison.”

“Who is that?” George mumbles around a mug of coffee.

“You mystery waiter,” Louis sounds proud. He hands Martha a stack of papers crammed into a folder, and continues. “It wasn’t hard to find him, but he doesn’t have much of a record.”

“Is he from here?” George asks, sipping his coffee languidly.

“Yes, and he’s actually not a waiter at all,” Alexander calls from the living room, stealing Louis’ thunder. He’s sitting with his feet tucked under him, scrolling through his phone. “He’s running for Lieutenant Governor of Virginia.”

“What?” George’s energy finds him quickly. “Who’s on his ticket?” Martha scrambles to find her iPad, typing in her password.

“Thomas Jefferson.” Momentary silence. And then, “He announced last night at his gala.”

“That’s very unorthodox,” Martha glances over at George, who is seething silently. “Have they announced campaign?”

“I’m not sure,” Alexander stands up. “But I knew he was going to pull something. I’m sorry I dragged you away from the party early.”

It’s 7:39am on a Friday morning. George rubs his face. “It wouldn’t have made a difference if I were there or not. He would have announced his running, and I would have looked like a fool.” He retreats to go upstairs and shower. He’s still in his tux, from last night, and his muscles are inconveniently sore. He groans.

“George, I’m going to pick up breakfast from Panera. Do you want anything?” Martha calls through the bathroom door.

“No, thank you,” he says back. His voice sounds different in the bathroom. It echoes, sounds more commanding. He turns the faucet on, runs some water in his hands and splashes it on his face. He needs to pull it together. He takes a long look at himself. Exhaustion is obvious. He turns on the showerhead, scalding hot, and steps into the sliding glass doors—Martha’s idea. George hates the lack of privacy—and stands for a moment. He lets the water run over him, with his head hanging. His mind can’t stop mulling over trying to solve all of these issues. James is going to be a lot harder to deal with, he thinks, so he sticks to handling Burr first. It’s easier to take out a man that no one knows exists.

He washes up, and steps out of the shower, patting his face dry with a fluffy, white towel. He dries his head and the nape of his neck, and wraps another one around his waist. He checks himself out in the mirror again, and proceeds to shave. When he’s done, he runs his hands over his smooth cheeks, and exits the bathroom, finding Alexander sitting on his bed, reading George’s personally annotated copy of _Slaughterhouse Five_. When he hears the door open, he looks up, and smiles bashfully, but George sees the way his boy’s eyes trail down his chest. “Hey.”

George stands there for a moment before he says, “If I’d known you were waiting out here, I would have hurried up.”

“I’m sorry, Washington!” he blurts out. “It’s my fault, I messed everything up.”

George strolls over, sits on the edge of the bed with his back to Alexander, who is sitting more toward the center. George lets his head drop between his shoulders, elbows balanced on his knees. His palms are grinding at his closed eyes and he heaves a sigh. There’s really nothing to say. Obviously, Alexander is the reason Alexander got arrested, but George could have just let him go to jail, and wouldn’t have to worry about the pressure of the federal government finding out about his tampering with potential legal cases. It’s not Alexander’s fault George is attracted to him the way he is. It’s not Alexander’s fault Jefferson is running for governor, and also possibly trying to ruin George’s life-slash-career. It’s not Alexander’s fault Burr’s a snake. He doesn’t respond.

Then, he feels Alexander’s soft hands on his shoulder blades. His fingertips are cool against George’s hot skin. He sucks in a breath when he feels Alexander’s lips press to his deltoid. “Let me make it up to you, sir. I’ve been a bad boy.”

“Yes, you have.” He resists the urge to turn around, and instead, closes his eyes. He can’t say no to this. Maybe if he were feeling angrier, he would punish his boy the way he knows he wants it. Right now, he’s just exhausted.

He pulls off the towel draped around his neck and Alexander’s hands begin to massage George slowly, working out tense knots in his shoulders and neck. George melts into his expert touch, exhaling deeply. They don’t speak, but he can feel Alexander on his knees behind him. Taking care of him. So domestic. He wonders, briefly, where Alexander learned to give massages like this.

And then, Alexander gets off the bed, and moves in front of George on his knees. He’s looking up at him through those thick, dark lashes with his lips parted faintly. “May I, sir?”

George watches him for a moment, weighing the options. And, of course, opens the towel, watching Alexander flash him a smirk at George’s already half-hard cock. Alexander doesn’t say anything. He knows this moment is about serving George, so he focuses on relieving his stress. Just the thought fills out George’s cock a little more. Alexander takes it in his hand gently. He appraises it for a moment, even though he’s done this with him before. He can see Alexander’s eyes size it up—and by the look on his face, he is not disappointed. It’s heavy and hot, and George gasps a little at Alexander’s cool fingers wrapping around him loosely. It stiffens a bit more. Reaching into the nightstand, his boy pulls out a condom, and rolls it on without a word. He’s focusing immensely, and the view makes George’s dick twitch.

Alexander strokes him lightly, experimentally, and he leans forward, dragging his lips along the underside of the shaft. George can see where the handcuffs smarted Alexander’s wrists, and he lets his eyes slip closed and his head tip back as Alexander kisses the head of his cock sweetly. A groan escapes his lips, and it occurs to him that he’d like to see Alexander go to work on him, the way only he knows how. So he peaks one eye open, to find his boy popping the head of his cock into his cheek.

It starts off slow and tender, with Alexander sliding his tongue out around the underside of George’s dick, moaning around him, making George shudder. His lips are swollen pink, face flushed a tint of red. His hands are resting on George’s toned thighs. He intertwines his left hand with George’s right, curling his fingers around George’s. A quick breath escapes George in something of a moan, and Alexander’s eyes are on his. He pops off, kisses down the underside of his shaft, licking back up the same path, and swallowing George to the base of his cock in one, smooth motion.

“ _Shit_.”

Alexander repeats this trick a few times, and George drops a hand in his hair absently. It isn’t forcing or guiding him, just there, resting in his soft waves. His next groan is bitten back, remembering he can’t be too loud, just for security’s sake. Alexander catches it, and the twinkle in his eyes is sexy enough for George to come. Except, he doesn’t. His breath is ragged, but he breathes out, “Can I—?”

Alexander pulls back, opens his mouth wide. His eyes are on George’s waiting. And so George takes the liberty. He stands up, grabs Alexander by the hair, and slides into his mouth obscenely slow. The contact is almost overwhelming, but he pulls back and does it again, and again, and again. Soon they’ve worked themselves into a steady rhythm, and Alexander’s hands are on George’s thighs again. He doesn’t resist, or gag. He takes it, and George is proud, considering how big he is.

“You’ve been a bad boy,” he grunts out, glaring down at Alexander, who moans in response, eyes on his. “What the _fuck_ were you thinking? You need me to remind you of your place, baby boy, huh? That it?” Another moan, but George’s rhythm doesn’t stutter. “Be a good boy, open wide,” he instructs, voice raspy and dark. Alexander does as he’s told, and opens his jaw, and George comes, with a heavy exhale, hand still locked in Alexander’s mess of hair.

He slips out of Alexander’s mouth, lets him drop onto all fours, panting. George grabs his towel and cleans himself off, slides off the condom and ties it up. He’s still half hard. He turns to look over his shoulder at Alexander, who is now watching him, drinking in the sight of his tightly muscled back, ass, and legs. He flexes for good measure. “Don’t touch yourself,” he says firmly. “Which means no coming. Not until I get ahold of you,” and he disappears into the bathroom again.

* * *

Thanksgiving is coming up soon, and Martha has taken an idle interest in decorating her office in oranges and golden browns. It’s a bit distracting, George thinks, shifting in his seat. He’s sitting with Martha, in her office, located in the back of _Mount Vernon_ , further down the hall from Alexander’s office. George had no idea this office existed, either. “We’re letting you go.”

Charles is sitting before them, eyes wide. He doesn’t say anything at first, and then he spits, “This is because of Hamilton, isn’t it?”

George exchanges a glace with Martha. “This is about your unexplained absences. Either you don’t show up, or you leave early. Charles, we should have taken care of this back in September, but in any case, I’m going to need you to leave.”

Lee’s face flushes red. “You want me gone so he can take my position, don’t you? I’m going to tell Burr—”

“Burr will be filling your position.”

“What?”

“I would say it’s been a pleasure working with you, Charles, but it hasn’t.” It’s final and George stands. “I’m going to ask you to leave again, or I will have security escort you out.” He knows the kid has some issue with Hercules, and Hercules isn’t too fond of Lee, either.

Lee stands brusquely, glaring at both Martha and George. “Congressman, you have made a very powerful enemy today.” He leaves.

No, George thinks, you did.

“It would seem like Lee is throwing a tantrum if he ran to the press telling them everything because you fired him,” Martha muses, rising from the corner of the desk she was sitting on. She closes the door behind Lee. “I wouldn’t worry too much about him.”

George had taken care of John Witherspoon, the guy Alexander punched, and convinced him to drop the charges, with no case being made against _Mount Vernon_. But convincing men in power is a bit harder than the average Joe. Speaking of averages Joes, “Where are we with Burr?”

Martha thinks for a moment. “Nowhere.”

“Goddammit.”

“Your campaign?” Martha asks, sitting down across from him, crossing one leg over the other. “You’re going to ann—”

There’s a crisp knock on the door, and they pause. George watches Martha open the door, and as she steps aside, Burr enters obsequiously, smiling at George with those damned straight teeth of his.

“You wanted to see me?”

“I didn’t.”

“Lee tells me you’ve fired him and I’m to be filling his position,” Burr says, with a grin. Word gets around pretty fast. “Is this to shut me up about what I know about you and Alexander?”

George sits back in Martha’s desk chair. Good lord, she knows how to pick furniture. He relaxes against it. “Alright. Let’s play your game. Let’s assume you’re right. Let’s say there _is_ something going on between me and Alexander,” he starts, eyes on Burr’s. “What does exploiting that gain you?”

He watches Burr consider it, before he’s carefully saying, “I’m not at liberty to discuss that.”

“Are you pleading the fifth now?” the laugh is short and cruel as he crosses his arms. “You come into _my_ house accusing me of indecency, you come into my wife’s office negotiating speculation, but you’re _not at liberty to discuss_? Mister Burr, I don’t know what games they play in New Jersey, but you’re in Washington DC now and I don’t have time for dilly-dallying. You will accept the job offer or you won’t. I’m doing you a favor, not the other way around. Martha tells me men like you don’t come to dinner without an appetite.” He knows it, just as well as Burr does. He’s after something bigger than a sex scandal.

Burr’s unfazed on the surface, but George can see the gears churning in his head. He speaks slowly, after a moment, “Your wife is a smart woman. When I come to the table, I expect a _meal_ , Mister Washington.” He crosses his arms against his chest. “Not a snack, not a crumb. A five-course meal with an entrée, and dessert.” He wants something bigger. Martha was right. He’s power hungry.

“I don’t set the table unless I have a seat,” George says simply, leaning in. He won’t negotiate unless there’s something in it for him. This extended metaphor is giving him a headache. So Burr’s a wordsmith. Perfect. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re not working on Wall Street, Burr? You went to Princeton, graduated early at the top of your class. And now you’re a bartender in DC? That doesn’t fit.” Burr’s jaw shifts, and George knows he has him. He just doesn’t know where to take it from there. He doesn’t even know what he knows.

“I won’t—” He pauses. “I won’t tell anyone. I’ll take the job.”

“Who have you told already?” It could be useful.

“No one.”

“Are you _sure_?”

“Yes, I’m sure. No one else knows. I haven’t said anything to anyone, and especially not Hamilton. Don’t want him to break my jaw, too.” The last part is muttered.

George watches him. He can’t trust Burr, but admittedly, he’s relieved. “Do I have your word?”

“Of course, sir,” he’s scared. Whatever he thinks George knows, George pretends to know. There’s _something_. He’s just looking in the wrong places. Once he finds Burr’s dirt, all he’ll have to do is keep digging. And there lies the treasure.

“Good. Now get the hell out of my office.”

* * *

George is officially on the ticket as a candidate for Virginia Governor, with his running mate being the meek, genteel John Adams. A small, plump man, whose cheeks are always a rose red, eyes always averted. George doesn’t care much for him, but it sort of defeats any purpose of collaborative teamwork if they can’t make eye contact. In February, it’s a lot milder than it normally would be. The flowers bloom early, and the snow melts sooner, a rare treat for DC inhabitants.

Alexander hates Adams. They typically have the same ideas for campaign, but they oftentimes clash. It becomes tedious trying to separate the two, to keep arguments from starting. Adams is a bit old-school. He’s not quite a homophobe, but he’s still touchy on the subject. His son, Quincy, came out to him when he was fifteen. Adams, George explained to Alexander, was not ashamed of Quincy, merely confused. Alexander still wanted to kick his ass. George gave up trying to explain that he was still accepting of his son, just very retro, but also very kindhearted. It was difficult to balance out. George doesn’t come out, anyway. Not to Adams, not to his campaign managers, and certainly not to his press advisor. His goal is to win the general against Jefferson in November.

He rids his mind of work, right now. He’s on his way to Alexander’s apartment with flowers, a bottle of bourbon, and a massive teddy bear, for a movie date. It’s Valentine’s Day.

The date was Martha’s idea. She’s hosting a party back at their residence, in an effort to shoo George away. And it’s worked because he’s outside of Alexander’s apartment, parking Nelson, and lugging the 50 foot caramel scented bear up the steep stairs. He knocks a few times, huffing the fur out of his mouth, and the door swings open, showcasing Alexander in a towel, wet hair falling over his shoulders. His eyes light up at the bear, but his laugh is different. “What in the—? Oh my gosh?” He steps aside, lets George maneuver it inside without knocking over any stacks of books. He closes the door, and George huffs as he drops the bear at his feet, holding out the bouquet.

“Got you some flowers.” George isn’t good at romance.

Alexander smiles. “I—thank you?” He accepts them, blushing. So neither one of them is accustomed to Romance, it seems. Good. “I’ll put these in water, or something. Just let me get dressed. Here’s some fun trivia for ya—term ‘teddy-bear’ comes from when President Teddy Roosevelt refused to shoot a bear, and local artists published a comic strip of it in the _Washington Post_ , and this really awesome guy named Michtom—I have a biography on him if you ever wanna borrow it—was inspired as hell and made a stuffed bear and named it Teddy’s Bear. It was a toy for kids, it was really great.”

As usual, he listens to Alexander’s babbling about nothing in particular. George looks around the apartment again. It’s a nice place, and because they knew George would be coming over, they tidied up. Considerate, George thinks.

“John’s DJ-ing for that party Martha’s throwing tonight,” Alexander calls from the bathroom. “You need anything? Make yourself at home.”

The lawn chairs are delicate, so George works on arranging the bear in some comfortable form in Alexander’s bedroom. It isn’t messy (probably because he hardly uses it) but the bear is huge. He sheds his jacket, and walks back into the kitchen, opening the fridge.

Alexander waltzes out in a t-shirt and basketball shorts. He’s glad to see George is dressed down in grey sweatpants. “Sometimes I forget you’re a man when you’re in those suits all day.” He pecks him on the cheek as he passes him.

George looks over his shoulder, glancing after Alexander, who is on his way to the living room with a book. “Agreed.”

Toward the end of the night, they agree on watching horror movies, just for fun, and George finds himself relaxing for the first time in months.

“OH MY—CAN ANYONE REALLY BE _THAT_ STUPID?” Alexander is yelling at the TV. They’re in his room, George is laying on his back, and Alexander is sitting upright, bouncing the bed with his exaggerated hand gestures. “Obviously he’s possessed, can she _not_ see that blood on his hands?”

George chuckles, but doesn’t answer. So much force in a person so small.

“That’s bullshit. Nope, nuh-uh, physics would prevent that from happening.”

His tirades go on:

“ _Bro_ , why the _fuck_ isn’t she _running_?”

“WHY DO THEY ALWAYS WALK _TOWARD_ THE CREEPY ASS SOUNDS?”

“I’m going to punch the director of this movie.”

“Wow,” it’s unimpressed. “Totally didn’t see _that_ one coming.”

“Alexander,” George’s voice carries. “C’mere.”

He turns the TV off, as Alexander snuggles into his bare chest, happily. He breathes in his scent—honey and citrus.

Sloppy kisses are exchanged in a slow, generous make-out session. His hands roam up and down Alexander’s warm body, stroking delicately, affectionately. George is buzzed. He’s been sipping bourbon all night, but Alexander has only had one glass. Didn’t like it that much. They’d eaten a dinner his boy prepared for them, slow danced to Chrisette Michelle. He hums a few bars from the song, loving the way Alexander sighs contently against him. He twirls his fingers into his boy’s hair, singing faintly. His eyelids are heavy and he’s almost halfway to sleep when he thinks he hears his boy whisper “I love you” but he isn’t sure if it’s just wishful thinking, so he breathes the scent of his Alexander drifts off with him to sleep, murmuring, “I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, so that got unexpectedly romantic?  
> o well, I'm [here on Tumblr](http://romaas-aesthetics.tumblr.com/) just shootin a breeze. Love is appreciated. (•ˇ‿ˇ•)-→  
> (btw, if you're interested, the song I was alluding to that Ham & GW slow-danced to was [this one](https://youtu.be/v1IG5xYNjlk) .)


	6. Work, Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR [TRIGGER] WARNINGS FOR IMPLIED/REFERENCED STATUTORY RAPE & IMPLIED/REFERENCED ABORTION  
> you have been warned.  
> proceed.

“ _The Monticello_ ,” Jefferson beams, handing George a pamphlet, displaying a large building. He continues dishing out the folds of paper to everyone sitting around him. Studying it, George would say it kind of looks like a library. If this is Jefferson’s smarmy ass way of winning the general, George isn’t impressed. His baby-kissing and library-building is all just calls for attention. Never thought he’d be so cliché, though. Usually, Jefferson shows that Grade-A ingenuity when it comes to trampling every nerve in George’s body. Maybe Jefferson’s losing his edge, too. “I’m opening in October.”

“What is it?” He opens the glossy pamphlet, to appease Jefferson. He can feel Madison’s eyes on him as he studies the paper. He’d been trying to avoid any awkward runs-ins with the guy, but Madison doesn’t say much of anything, save for the occasional confirmations and ego-feeding mumbles he gives when Jefferson needs back-up for his latest and greatest declarations. 

“The bar I’m opening. Sally and I thought it would be a good investment. Right, Madison?”

“Yep.”

George tries not to spit the bourbon out in a sudden fit of laughter. Does this guy know where to draw the line? _Mount Vernon_ has gotten George some good publicity, but the original idea had nothing to do with earning him brownie points with the citizens. Jefferson is pathetic, but George refrains from telling him as much. “You’re opening a bar?”

“I am.” Again, no shame. Sometimes, George wonders if he ever gets tired of being a prick.

Instead of leaving like he wants to, George takes the gamble of listening to Jefferson maunder aimlessly about all the events leading up to his decision, seasoning his story with ‘and this has nothing to do with _Mount Vermin_ , by the way’ and ‘wow, I just really had this dream when I was nine’ and ‘Georgie, you’re an inspiration to us all. Follow your dreams, people!’

By the time George has drained his bourbon, he’s ready to go home. However, Jefferson’s invitation to his birthday party prevents him to leave it, just out of social etiquette. Gentlemen are scattered about, standing around with glasses, chattering amongst themselves, however George has to endure Jefferson’s listless, tedious, _egregious_ small talk. Again, George had been convinced by Hamilton to attend Jefferson’s party. This time, though, there is no shocking announcement.

April 13th, Jefferson had announced in his invitation, is _Thomas Jefferson Day_. He’d required guests to bring gifts for him. George got him a box of macaroni noodles, neatly wrapped in golden wrapping paper. He’d asked Martha to do it for him.

Jefferson’s like a twelve year old, George thinks, observing the way he basks with glory in his own house at his own party. Sure, he’s allowed to enjoy himself, by all means, but the man’s way too full of himself. He’s got his feet kicked up on the coffee table, singing at the top of his lungs, having instructed the orchestra to ‘shut the damn hell up,’ adding run-ons in the notes that weren’t originally there, and snapping at people who sing along.

“This is not a duet,” he’s snarling. Jefferson’s a great singer, sure, but George is getting a headache.

He’s scrolling through his phone, reading headlines for the news, concerning the bill the House will be voting on next weekend by the time midnight rolls around. He’s frustrated with the phrasing on some of the reviews, muttering about how some of these press secretaries need to step their game up. Soon, he begins distracting himself with BuzzFeed articles, a website Alexander had shown him one night after a particularly satisfying blow job. He is thoroughly amused with the article about dogs. The quizzes are pretty fun, too.

“Congressman Washington?”

He looks up.

“Nathan Hale. Huge supporter of your campaign.” He’s a beautiful boy, smiling down at George, with deep set cerulean eyes. They shake hands. “Do you have a moment?”

He could decline. He could wave the boy away and leave. He’s skeptical—doesn’t know what kind of bullshit Jefferson’s pulling this time. Is he trying to bait him? Why would some kid supporting _George’s_ campaign be at Jefferson’s personal birthday party? And why is he so damn _pretty_? “Can I help you?” he asks, voice flat.

“Outside…?” Hale gestures to the door smoothly. His smile is shy, testing. “If it’s no problem.”

George stands politely, setting his empty glass down. He strides to the door, holds it open for the boy to pass through, and closes it behind himself as he steps outside. After thoroughly checking to make sure no one’s around, he turns to Nathan Hale expectantly.

“I have access to Congressman Jefferson’s personal accounts, his documents.” It’s quick, to the point. He wastes no time with pleasantries. _Good_. “Every penny he’s spent in the last forty years, every phone call he’s made, every arrest warrant he’s had that he made disappear.”

“Not interested.”

“I know how much you can’t stand him. It’s his birthday, and so I figured, why not give you a gift?” His eyes are bright. “It’s ironic. Which is why I laughed.”

Strange kid. George stares at him, gingerly. “Who did you say you were, again?” Looks like he’s fresh out of college.

“Nathan Hale, sir. I just want to help.”

“Your enthusiasm is appreciated, but your services aren’t needed. Goodnight, Nathan Hale.” George prepares to turn back to go inside. Whatever tricks Jefferson has up his sleeves won’t work. Though, this is new. Maybe he _isn’t_ losing his edge after all. If he weren’t so pissed off, maybe he would be proud.

“I have evidence that Sally Hemings had her first abortion when she was sixteen.”

George stops in his tracks. Frozen by the words. He doesn’t turn around, though. Just listens.

“Her mother was Jefferson’s maid. And Sally was around him as a child, in an agreement between her mother and him. He would provide shelter for Sally and her siblings, and Sally’s parents would work for minimal pay.” He doesn’t stutter over his words.

George finally turns around, studies the boy for a moment. “Why are you telling me this?”

* * *

“You think he’ll get anyone to listen?”

“To him? God, no.”

“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain,” Martha reprimands him with a playful cuff. “And _don’t_ underestimate him.”

“Right. _It is the enemy you underestimate that will kill you_.” He’s sure he could quote war leaders all day if he had to. “Of course.”

The morning after Jefferson’s self-glorifying-birthday-bash, George has requested they spend Sunday church hours in the empty _Mount Vernon_ to clear up the mix with Hale, Martha, and Alexander. Martha’s fixed them all drinks, complacent with their arrangement, and with the idea of showing off her supreme drink-mixing skills for Alexander and their new guest. George sips his neat bourbon sparingly, shuffling through last week’s mail. He’ll have to be driving in an hour or so.

“Lee’s always talking shit,” Alexander pouts. “He doesn’t even _know_ what the hell he thinks he knows.”

“ _Language_.”

“Lee’s a bit unstable,” Nathan reminds them. “When he started telling people about you and Alex’s affair, no one believed him. I don’t even think he believed himself. As far as I know, he doesn’t have any evidence. But you have to be careful, people will start prying.”

“Is that how you found out?” George asks, tossing a few envelopes.

“I’m trying to protect you.”

“You don’t need to protect us,”

“Well, with all due respect, I’m going to do it anyway, Congressman Washington.” His voice is steady, and he doesn’t glance twice at George as he checks his watch.

“You know you could go to prison if someone found out you had these,” Alexander says briskly from his perch by George’s thigh. It had been rather obvious that Alexander wasn’t too pleased with their new potential-informant being such a handsome young man. “We all could.” He’s referring to the flash-drive with all of Jefferson’s personal records, scrolling through them on Martha’s MacBook.

“You won’t. You don’t even know me,” he reminds them. “I was never here, and you’ve never heard of me.”

“You want us to lie in Supreme Court?” Martha asks, a tight frown forming.

“Two things. One, it won’t escalate that far. Two, if it does—didn’t Congressman Washington lie about never having homosexual affairs?” He jerks his thumb back to Alexander. “Don’t you have to admit to that before you’re running for governor?”

George sits back with a grunt, exchanging glances with Martha. It’s her turn.

“What’s your angle here?” She asks.

“I don’t have one,” he says with a shrug. “You don’t have to trust me yet, ma’am. None of you do, and I don’t expect you to. Not until I’ve proven myself.”

George raises an eyebrow. “What’s got you involved in politics?”

“Injustice.”

“It’s none of your business,” George replies casually.

Hale sits forward. “Mister and Missus Washington, Alexander; Jefferson is going to win the general in November. When he gets tired of being governor, he’s going to run for president. Men like Jefferson take what they want and they’re not sorry for it.” He taps on the bar with his index finger. “I’m doing us all a favor here. Me, you, your wife, your boyfriend, the whole country. I’m getting Sally Hemings justice, and who knows, maybe any other women he forced himself onto. I’m _saving_ this campaign and your career, your affair, and maybe even your life. Congressman Washington, it is _all_ of my business when my country is being run by conmen and _rapists_. Sally Hemings can’t speak on her own, so we’ll speak for her. _It’s crooked_. And if going to federal prison is what it takes to restore some decency to this system, then that’s exactly what I’ll do.”

They’re silent. George glances at Martha, who glances at him in turn. Martha is absolutely livid. She had always known something was crooked about that man. Could never figure out what. It took retraining every muscle in her body to keep from slapping him across the face any time he touched so much as her hand. “Why are we dangling this over his head? Why don’t we just turn this in _now_ and send that fucker to prison?” It isn’t like Martha to swear. George doesn’t look at her. He knows she’s on the verge of tears. “Why are you using her rape as _leverage_?”

“One, I’m not. And I would never do that to anyone. The statute of limitations is going to run out soon, so I will not hold back. But two, this, what I have, is illegal. And what I’m threatening him with is illegal. I’ll be in prison before these papers _ever_ see the light of day, if we don’t plan this carefully. Three, this way, we can kill two birds with one stone. Or, more like five birds. But I like birds. I’m a bird kind of guy.”

Still, a strange kid. Slowly, George looks back at Martha, who gives him a small nod, and then he looks back to Hale, who has not lost his composure yet. He’s simply waiting, with a humble grace radiating. His smile isn’t smug, it’s hopeful. Like a puppy. A strange puppy.

“Alright. We’ll give you a shot. But do _not_ mistake this as trust.”

“I would never, sir. But now we have to talk about strategizing.”

* * *

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Lee told the whole world. And when the whole world believed him, they scheduled an interview with him, but he just backed out of it and disappeared to his hole in the ground,” Alexander mumbles. The hole-in-the-ground-thing has been a running joke between them since he said it in his fit of rage.

“Hey,” George mumbles, kissing his boy’s bare shoulder sweetly. “Let’s not talk about that right now. Come here.”

Alexander turns over on his side so that he’s chest to chest with George, nose to nose. George brushes the strands of hair out of his boy’s eyes, those impossibly gorgeous eyelashes fluttering bashfully as he does. He kisses Alexander’s forehead. They’re snuggled together, relaxing after what has been a strenuous, pointlessly aggravating day. George is busy kissing the knuckle of each of Alexander’s fingers.

Alexander tilts George’s chin up to meet his lips with a kiss. A sweet, neat kiss, but one that knocks the air out of George’s lungs, nonetheless. The one kiss becomes many, down his boy’s neck, along his collarbones, over his jaw. Those pretty hands of his rake George’s skin through his t-shirt and a quiet moan escapes Alexander’s perfect lips. George slips over him so that he’s on top, and Alexander’s legs hook around his waist, pulling him closer, rocking their bodies together. A harsh exhale dissolves into a breathy chuckle.

Alexander ruts his hips up against George, and hisses at the contact, tugging to get George’s shirt off, skimming his hands over his tightly muscled chest. “God, you’re fucking _jacked_ ,” he mumbles, inhaling George’s scent. Something like smoky wood and coffee. He kisses over his pecs, nipping and sucking. There’s a heavy sigh above him as he works. He shudders under George’s solid frame, they continue to rock their hips together smoothly, gasping and groaning. And then their lips collide again, but this time in a rough, bruising kiss. Tongue and teeth, Alexander’s nails will leave welts on George’s toned shoulder blades, he’s sure. They exhale again, in unison as their grinding gets rougher, less rhythmic.

And George has had enough. “Turn over,” he breathes roughly, pulling back.

Alexander enthusiastically scrambles to his knees without protest, shoving his boxers down mid-thigh. He raises his hips at the crack of the hand on his thigh, coupled with a firm, “Up.” George grips the meat of his ass tightly before giving it a hearty smack for good measure. Alexander sighs shakily, presses his ass into the air higher in search for more contact. “Good, baby girl, that’s perfect,” he hears from behind him and smirks into the pillow he’s gathered with his arms to muffle himself.

The handprint is attractive on his boy’s fine ass, George thinks. He admires his handiwork (pun intended)—he chuckles at his own joke—for a moment before he’s searching the nightstand for condoms and lubricant. He digs it out with no hesitation, a bit startled and more turned on to see Alexander is looking over his shoulder at George swaying his hips side to side gently. Those dark eyes are so hypnotizing, eyelashes low over those scintillating orbs.

George works the condom on, slicks his fingers up and presses one against the rim of Alexander’s hole. He dips it in slowly, feeling what he’s working with. It’s searing hot velvet, clamping down on him. “Relax, baby,” he whispers, hovering with his chest just inches above Alexander’s back, trying to steady his breathing. But the way his boy’s back arches so beautifully away from his chest fills him with want. “Honey, relax, breathe.”

Alexander’s tensing up against George, but once he finally relaxes, George eventually presses the second finger in, scissoring. This elicits a pleasured whimper of a moan, which encourages George onward. By the time he’s worked Alexander open, his boy is calling to the heavens, on the verge of tears.

“Don’t _tease_ me,” he’s moaning breathlessly, snapping his hips onto George’s fingers, and George lets him. It’s desperate, it’s hot. “ _Vous avez beaucoup dans cette graisse putain bitte_? _Pour moi, monsieur_?”

George doesn’t ask him to translate, thinks it’s sexy to hear his boy dirty talk in French—or whatever the hell it is he’s speaking. Instead, he pulls his fingers out, slicks his cock up with the lube he’d tossed aside earlier. He ignores the boy’s protests, swaying his ass in the air again. George is painfully hard, so he pumps himself generously, and positions himself behind Alexander. He smacks him on his ass harshly, and Alexander’s moan becomes a shriek, and at that moment, George slips inside him in a single, easy motion. He doesn’t move, knows it’s gotta be uncomfortable for a second as Alexander adjusts to his size. But, _shit_ he has to bite his lip to keep from groaning—Alexander feels like George is fucking heaven.

“Oh, _God_ ,” it’s guttural, choked out. Alexander’s hands scramble to clutch the sheets, pressing his plush ass against George’s neatly-sculpted abs. George thinks he might faint at the view.

He waits a second, then shifts his hips, pulling out and sliding back in. It’s a slow, steady rhythm, just to get them started. He doesn’t want to tear his boy up too badly. Not just yet, anyway.

A harsh breath. “F-faster, please, sir.”

So, he speeds up, but gradually. He keeps his left hand gripping Alexander’s hip, as he plows him, the other one keeping him balanced as he leans forward over his boy’s back. He’s slender, got a few scars, but he’s sweaty and slick, and moaning, and breathless, and George thinks it’s the sexiest thing in the world. He picks up the pace, slamming into him, and he must have found Alexander’s prostate, because his boy’s voice is verging on desperate shrieks and squeals as George pounds him. For a moment, all George hears is skin slapping on skin, and the bed creaking under the weight, and Alexander’s voice hitches again in a strangled moan.

George flips him over, tosses the boy’s boxers the rest of the way off, and hikes his leg over his shoulder, gripping his thigh. He leans forward over him again, pressing Alexander’s knee toward his chest, but not enough to make him uncomfortable, kissing him while he fucks, and stroking his boy off in time with his thrusts. Alexander’s hands lock around George’s neck and he’s whispering rapid French next to his ear and goddamn he smells so good and his ass is so tight, _fuck_ he’s saying his name, over and over, pleading him—for what, neither of them are sure, but it doesn’t matter, he’s whispering “Please, please, please, George, _fuck_ , please,” And just like that, he comes. All over his stomach and George’s chest, toes curling, back arching against the sheets. George isn’t too far behind, coming with a harsh grunt, burying his nose in the crook of Alexander’s neck, rocking into him deeply, slowly a few more times before he pulls out.

Alexander collapses with a heavy, content sigh, and George ties the condom off, trashes it, and snuggles up into his boy. He smiles, pulling him close, tucking his hair behind his ear, heavy breathing, languid, after-sex kissing. He falls asleep against Alexander’s chest, with him tracing hypnotic circles in between his shoulder blades.

 

* * *

George wakes up, glances around. According to his phone, it’s 6:02am. He’s slept on his arm funny, but Alexander has graciously flung himself into a somersault, feet propped up against the headboard, snoring softly, arms spread wide, like he’s making a snow angel. George chuckles, admiring his boy at the only time he ever seems to shut up—when he’s asleep. He’s a wild sleeper, it seems. George rolls his neck, shakes out his shoulders, and glides off into the bathroom, preparing to shower.

He figures Martha must have slept in her room down the hall, and then he wonders how much she’d heard last night. He jumps at the sudden knocking on the bathroom door.

“George? Is that you in there?” It’s Martha, probably wondering what he’d like from Panera. “I’m going to swing by Panera; they’re having a special on the sandwiches today. Do you want one?”

“No, I’m fine. Could you get Alexander those muffins that he likes?” George calls. “The sugary ones with the apple crumbs, I think.”

“Gotcha!” She calls, and then she leaves. George would like to hug her right now.

* * *

Apparently old habits die hard because Alexander still sends crumbs flying when he rants with a mouthful of Apple Crunch Muffin, “Lee’s a LOSER! No one will believe half of what he says—that is if he sticks around long enough to say it!”

“Relax, Hamilton,” Hale mumbles, sipping his coffee routinely. “Lee’s backed by the press. Howe would publish that paper if it meant ruining Congressman Washington’s career. He’d probably even sell his soul if it meant ruining Washington’s _day_.”

“Why does the press hate me so?” George is stirring his own black coffee, one hand tangled in Alexander’s. He’s noticed Hale empties almost all of the creamer into his coffee, and pours tons of sugar into it. So George has made an effort not to say anything distasteful.

“Maybe it’s because you’re a Black, southern democrat who’s running for governor—and possibly president.” He’s ticking it off on his fingers as he goes. “You have no kids of your own, you’re reticent, seem like too much of a good guy to really be a good guy, you’re not religious, and you’re filthy rich.” Hale blows on his coffee sparingly. “Also, you’re in the closet. But they can’t hate what they don’t know.” He tacks on the last part with the dismissive wave of both hands.

“Right,” George mumbles, though he didn’t need Hale to state it all so openly. He appreciates the frankness, though. Maybe he can get this guy to be his campaign manager.

“Look, Lee’s just trying to rile you up. If you act without thinking, there’s a chance people _will_ become interested. And that is the absolute last thing we’d want right now,” Hale continues, glancing at Alexander.

“You don’t have to worry about me doing anything dumb,” Alexander says, rolling his eyes. “It’s not like I see him anymore, anyway. And that punk bitch still owes me gas money.” Martha reprimands him with a brief look of reproach. He smiles sheepishly. George wonders how Lee could owe Alexander gas money when Alexander doesn’t even own a car.

“I should be leaving by 7:00,” he glances at his watch. “Which is right now. Look, I have an appointment with this guy I’m doing business for. I’ll be back at around 4pm if any of you needs me.” He scoops up his Styrofoam coffee cup, the ones Martha had gotten with the positive love-inspiring memos. George’s says _Be Kind. Everyone Is Terrified_. He squeezes his boys hand in a silent, steady promise.

 

* * *

It’s muggy, and the humidity irritates Alexander to the point of restless frustration. He’s convinced DC was one of the worst places to put the Capital of the United States—there’s hardly ever a good day with weather. George never bothered to speak in the district’s defense, so he’s convinced George agrees with him.

John and Alexander are discussing Lee’s insinuations over pizza uptown. John’s offered to pay, because he’d gotten a raise. They haven’t spent time together in a while, even being roommates, best friends, and coworkers. It’s strange. John looks younger, even with the tired bags he has under his bright eyes. Working in a nightclub will do that to you. They have a day off today, even though it’s Monday. Martha had given it to them, saying the building is under inspection, just a routine thing, and the chefs, VIP bartenders, and dancers would not be able to get in to prepare beforehand, as they always do. She’d given it as a gift. As far as Alexander knows, John hates sleeping in on days off. He hardly has a social life during the day anymore.

“It could literally ruin Washington’s _whole_ _career_. And he’s a good guy. He doesn’t deserve that,” Alexander sighs, staring out of the window. “Especially not because of someone like Charles fucking Lee.”

“He’s such a prick. No wonder Pendleton hated that guy.” John’s picking the peperoni off of his pizza, stacking them neatly. “He’s un-loyal and fake.”

“I’m pretty sure the word is ‘disloyal,’ John.”

“Whatever. I’m gonna kick his ass.”

“This morning, I was talking to Washington.” He refrains from mentioning Hale—deniability, discretion, and diplomacy, Hale’s motto. “He said if we overreacted, it would make us look bad—like we were _trying_ to hide something. And then other people would start taking a closer look.” Alexander steals a few pepperonis. “Besides, Washington might actually literally snap my neck if he had to pull me out of another street fight.”

“So I’ll do it,” John shrugs.

“John. If you get another strike, you’re going to prison.”

“That last one didn’t count as a felony,” John snorts.

“Still.”

“Then it’ll just be a street fight,” he tries to placate. “No cops. I’ll beat his ass, and then I’ll go home. No one would think I’m defending you and GDubbs’ honor, Alex. They wouldn’t be able to trace it back to you if neither of us said anything.”

“I’m not letting you do this,” Alexander mumbles, in spite of himself. He would _really_ like to kick Lee’s ass. But he can’t deliberately disobey George.

“You don’t have to ‘let me’ do anything. You’re not my grandma, and someone needs to remind him not to go around spreading rumors just because he thinks the world owes him shit. That’s the problem I always had with him, Alex, he always felt _entitled_ to shit that wasn’t in his lane.”

And, as if in some cheesy high school rival gang 50’s film, they run into Lee, after John had eventually convinced Alexander—who was already willing to say yes, anyway—that there would be nothing wrong with the two grown men handling their grown men problems. And it wasn’t a very strong argument. John wanted to punch Lee. It wasn’t a very strong convincing statement. Alexander wanted to punch Lee, also. But they agreed, Alexander couldn’t get into any trouble—George bailing him out _this_ time would certainly raise suspicions.

Lee doesn’t say anything, at first. He’s with Burr, who hasn’t noticed them. Burr’s picking through floral arrangements, comparing them idly. John spots Lee, nudges Alexander. Lee taps Burr. They stand there, staring at each other, awkwardly. At once, Burr is strolling over to the duo, regarding them casually. Lee looks a bit fidgety, standing alone where they were before. If anything, Alexander would say John brought him here on purpose—like he knew Lee would be here. He doesn’t ask about it, though, because deniability. That’s a good enough reason, he thinks.

“Alexander?”

“Aaron Burr, sir.”

“What are you and John doing up here?”

Lee has begun eyeing John, realizing it would be _him_ who attacks, not Alexander. He tries to inch off, but John continues walking toward him menacingly.

“What do you mean? We’re just wal—Hey!”

And Lee takes off, pushing over a cart of flowers, with John darting after him, hurdling over it as if he’d calculated that move the entire time. He’s nimble, agile, chasing Lee through the streets at top speed already, so Alexander and Burr take off after them, shouting for them to stop.

Alexander runs until his lungs burn. He hasn’t run like this since high school, but Burr doesn’t seem to have any problem keeping up. Alexander can still see them, Lee sprinting down the road, weaving in and out of traffic, John shouting after him to slow down and take his ass-whooping like a real man. It doesn’t coax him, if that was John’s plan. It isn’t like the flawless, expert foot-chasing on movies—Burr bumps into a few people, gets coffee spilled on him. Alexander nearly trips over a chair he hadn’t seen was there, and Lee, as it turns out, doesn’t have much stamina.

He reaches a dead end in an alleyway, panting, coughing, and wheezing. John corners him, but his chest hurts too much for him to kick his ass the way he was planning to. Burr jogs to a stop, followed by Alexander, who is relieved to see they’ve stopped running. He stands around, places his hands atop his head to help circulate his breathing, or whatever. Something Lafayette had told him a while ago.

“I’m not gonna beat your ass,” John says, in between panting. He jabs his finger into Lee’s heaving chest. He’s slurring his words with exhaustion. “Not today. I’ll save that for another day. But today—I just hoped you saw how much of a _coward_ you are. Alex?”

“Yea?” His salvia is thick and his chest still aches.

“Let’s take the train home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, school starts back this week. I will be inconsistent with uploading, I apologize, but you can reach me on Tumblr @romaas-aesthetics and I will gladly take questions, comments, or tasteful jokes. love is appreciated!


	7. Yo Chill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> George nods. And what if he doesn’t? He’ll blow up, of course. Alexander is rather problematic. Quite argumentative. He bites the inside of his cheek. He could try it. “Martha, he’s going to kill me.”  
> “I’m glad you have life insurance.”

“I told you not to harass him.”

“We didn’t. Not intentionally, at least.”

George frowns.

“Sorry. We saw him, we just chased him. To scare him. It was pointless. Nothing happened.”

“Yes, and now you both have a ticket.”

“I think they overreacted about that window thing. A hand print should not equate to 15 hours of community service and a $40 fine.”

“Well it does, and you’re going to do it. 15 hours isn’t even a whole day; you’ve got time to spare.”

Alexander groans, flopping into his desk chair. “Lee shouldn’t talk so much shit if he doesn’t want to get his ass beat.”

John nods in agreement. “ _But_ , we didn’t even touch him. And for what it’s worth, Alex told me not to go up to him.”

George drops the tickets onto Alexander and John’s desks with bitter finality. “You’re lucky we’ve kept you on staff.”

He has no patience right now, anymore. He’s extremely disappointed and irritated with them, and work, and _Mount Vernon_ , and his own, personal issues. In August, he’s going to have to get back on the road for campaigning all over Virginia. Great. The general election is in November. _Oh joy_. And he can’t even rely on Alexander to keep from performing his usual asinine antics in his presence. How can he trust him to stay out of trouble when he’s gone? Martha will be coming with George on his trip. Always has. It’s good for public image, too. So the boys will be left alone, with no one to keep an eye on them—well, there are the Schuyler sisters, but Martha has mentioned how she wouldn’t want to deprive them of their social lives just to keep the knuckleheads out of trouble for a few weeks.

He leaves the office, muttering about shifts for the night. The stakes are very high right now. With Jefferson potentially finding out about Hale, and Lee leaking to the media with this sudden attention, and the _general election is in November_. The stakes are _supremely_ high right now.

In the evening, Martha sits with him over homemade pasta, trying to have a normal conversation. It doesn’t actually work, because George isn’t into small talk and Martha is very well aware of it. She’s heard about the situation regarding Lee and John, but she doesn’t bother to ask about it. In all honesty, she isn’t sure she wants to know about it. She doesn’t want to talk about campaigns, either. Business is stressful, as per usual, and she doesn’t feel like talking about that. For once, Martha Washington has nothing to say. She sips her wine distantly, cringing at the way the silverware clatters on the dishes.

* * *

 

Martha frowns skeptically, reading through an invitation she’d received in the mail, along with George’s own invite. It kind of looks like a wedding invitation, but it’s inviting them to the grand opening of _The Monticello_ , much to her distaste. It’s been getting some critical media attention, regarding its legitimacy. A lot of people thought it was a joke, considering how George and Jefferson are practically rivals. But it’s a cocktail lounge, just uptown, near the lake. A work of art. Martha isn’t too happy about his wonderful idea, which shamelessly mirrors her and George’s own insight. “Is there some specific reason he’s doing this?”

Hale doesn’t look up from typing as he declares, “Trying to get under your skin. He’s good at doing that.”

Meanwhile, George is preparing for his campaign trail, and Martha is supposed to be, too. It’s August 2nd, and they leave at 10am. It’s currently 4:32am. Martha’s fluttering around, tidying up and singing cheerily. She tosses the invitation on the counter, along with a few other envelopes, then returns to her usual. There really isn’t anything to “clean up” because she’s always straightening things out along the way. George admires the kind of person she is.

“Honey.” She breezes into their bedroom as he folds shirts into his navy blue suitcase. “Have you talked to the Marquis about house-sitting for us like I’ve asked you to? The dogs can’t be here by themselves.”

George glances over his shoulder at her. “I meant to when I saw him yesterday. I can text him, if you’d like.” They had both agreed that Lafayette would probably be a better decision, of all four boys. Hercules has a day job, though, so he wouldn’t be there when it truly counted, and John and Alexander would probably trash the house with their parties. They’re basically still teenaged boys.

“Perfect. Could you let him know we’ll pay him for it? And he isn’t scared of dogs, is he?” Now she begins her packing, just as George finishes.

“Not that I know of.” He leaves his suitcase open on the bed, picks up his phone, tapping out his message to the Marquis briskly, hits send. “Martha, can we discuss something?”

“Sure,” she replies lightheartedly, moving about the room to collect shoes.

“Can we talk about Alexander?”

She stops for a moment, then resumes her task. “What about him?”

George sighs, plops down on the bed. He rubs the back of his neck before saying, “The kid’s a mess.”

She grins. “I know.”

“And I trust him with anything—just not this. Being alone. Being _responsible_.” They’re only going to be gone for three weeks, but a lot can happen in three weeks. A lot can happen in one day. “But if I say something, I don’t want him to feel like he’s unable to handle himself—”

“Which he isn’t,”

“—right. So what should I say to him? To hint that I’m counting on him to keep himself in check?” He waits with bated breath, watching her. George means well, truly, but he knows if he didn’t seek help with this, he would have unintentionally hurt his boy’s feelings, or made him feel inadequate again. Martha’s good with people. She’ll know.

“Just tell him. ‘Alexander, you need to start acting like a real adult.’” She collects several dresses from her closet, tossing them onto the bed next to her suitcase. George’s shoulders slump at the response. That would have been his initial speech, anyway. “‘Act like you have some sense while I’m gone. Hold down the fort.’ He’ll appreciate the honesty. He’s good that way.”

George nods. And what if he doesn’t? He’ll blow up, of course. Alexander is rather problematic. Quite argumentative. He bites the inside of his cheek. He could try it. “Martha, he’s going to kill me.”

“I’m glad you have life insurance.”

“You’re hilarious.” His tone betrays his words. He’s deadpanning. He changes the subject. “Hale’s downstairs, isn’t he?”

“Doing research on Jefferson’s finances,” Martha swats the air dismissively. “He said he was typing data tables.”

George finds himself downstairs with Hale moments later, who occupies the bar counter promptly. His papers are spread out around him, his laptop cord is tangled and hovering over the kitchen floor, the wire stretched taunt to reach the nearest outlet. The kid’s diet consists of Red Bull, animal crackers, and coffee. He looks like it, too. He’s become very pale and gaunt in the last few months. “When’s the last time you’ve slept?”

Without removing his eyes from the screen, Hale continues typing as he replies, “62 hours ago.”

George nods, glancing over Hale’s shoulder. And indeed, there’s some Excel document open, charts and columns filled out with numbers and symbols, and equations. “You should rest. Take these next three weeks off. Martha and I will be out of town.”

Hale turns to George, eyes bloodshot, hair a mess. “Sally’s statute of limitations expires in January. If I want to get this case to trial in time, get you into the Governor’s Mansion, and get that cocksucker into prison, I _need_ to work constantly. _Sleeping_ will not get this done.” He vaguely sounds like Alexander during his bad all-nighters.

“‘Cocksucker’ is not an insult. Merely a preference. Do you call all people out by their inclinations?”

“No, Congressman Washington, I apologize. I didn’t mean it that way.” He turns back to his laptop.

George doesn’t have a response.

* * *

 

The tour bus arrives at 9:45am, as promised. It’s parked beside the Washingtons’ home, blocking half the street, but looking pristine as ever. The slogan decorating is “This Is It.” Alexander had suggested “Yo Chill” with the argument that it would attract younger crowds, and instill a vibe of “chill” within older generations, because they inherently lacked it. George had politely declined. Adams has arrived with his things, Lafayette with his, and Alexander came with him, just for good measure. Since then, Hale moved up into George’s study—deniability, he’d advised as he ascended the stairs with his laptop and coffee. George had then asked Lafayette to keep a good eye out for the poor kid, lest he works himself to death.

Loading their bags into the bus, Alexander steals a quick kiss while no one’s looking, after George’s lengthy lecture on responsibility.

“I know, Wash. But John and I finished the community service last weekend. _And_ we paid our tickets. We’re not gonna get into any fights while you’re gone, we talked about it. A lot. Feel better?” He’s grinning, but he’s far enough away to prevent suspicion. Martha has shepherded everyone away for privacy’s sake, anyway.

“Not really,” George snickers, restraining himself from kissing his boy’s forehead. He has been promised a massage for when he returns, by Alexander’s skilled and magnificent hands. He’s looking forward to it. The driver calls for them to board. “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you when we get to the hotel.” And he’s off. Alexander watches him from the porch, with Lafayette and Vulcan. The dog is wagging his tail appreciatively, having claimed the Marquis when he first arrived at 7am. They watch the bus drive off, and Alexander and Lafayette wave as they watch them leave—but the windows are one-sided, so they aren’t sure if Martha and George are waving back or not. When the bus disappears, they go inside.

* * *

 

 _The Monticello_ opens on a rainy, Tuesday night. Well, it’s supposed to open. The air is hot and heavy, and a thunderstorm is in the wake of DC inhabitants by 9pm. Hardly anyone shows, and when they do, they don’t stick around long, on account of the severe storm warning. It’s been recommended that people stay indoors. Thomas is destroyed.

“It was supposed to be _my night_!” He’s throwing a tantrum, screaming at nothing. He and Madison are in Madison’s apartment, facing the Washington Monument in the distance. The curtains are opened to reveal the morose sky and the DC skyline. Not a bad view, Madison thinks. “It’s _ruined_!”

“Thomas, relax; it isn’t ruined. Look at those storm clouds,” Madison mumbles, looking up from his newspaper. “That’s beautiful. That’s _awe-inspiring_. Plus, Washington isn’t even in town. And I told you it would be a bad idea to open on a Tuesday.”

“‘I told you it would be a bad idea to open on a Tuesday,’” Thomas mocks spitefully.

“Look at where copying people has gotten you,” he replies coolly, folding the paper into his lap. He stares at Jefferson skeptically. “You need to relax. This whole project is going to throw you into debt. How will you fund your campaign if you’re in debt?”

“I already have enough votes to win general.” Jefferson sounds smug as he sits down next to his running mate, props his feet up into Madison’s lap. 

“Remember what we said about being cocky,” Madison raises an eyebrow. Jefferson hadn’t even bothered to remove his shoes. “Washington hasn’t started his campaign yet, and you know the people love him. People _respect_ him.”

Jefferson and Madison’s slogan is “For Today, A Better Tomorrow” which was posed during a late night of brainstorming. Neither of them truly believe that hard work will equate to success and an epiphany of fortune and prosperity for the American people. Capitalism is wired that way, though. Jefferson had proposed their being running mates several months before his return from Paris. Madison, in his nature, was hesitant and skeptical. Eventually, though, Jefferson won him over, and now they’re on some “diplomatic mission” (as Jefferson had referred to it) to rise to power in America. He thought the plan was rather cheesy, but didn’t oppose it.

Here they are, though, and lighting streaks the sky for a split second before thunder claps and the whole room shakes.

 

 

 _Mount Vernon_ hasn’t opened tonight, either. John is staying with Hercules, and Alexander is playing cards with Lafayette in George and Martha’s living room. They still haven’t called, like George said they would. Alexander ignores the anxiety curdling in his stomach.

“Go fish, _Jambon_ ,” the Marquis says, sipping his coconut water. “Six?” His _Idiom Dictionary_ is lying next to him, awaiting his use when he vehemently flips through pages to find whatever phrase it is Alexander says to him in between their turns, promising him even the most bizarre ones are actual phrases people actually use. They’re not. He gets a laugh every time the Marquis figures this out.

Alexander draws a card, skims his own hand, and his phone rings, lights up with _Daddy_ _✨_ displayed on the screen, to which Lafayette raises both eyebrows and looks away with pursed lips. He knows Alexander doesn’t know his biological father. There’s only one other person he could have been referring to—and probably not in a family-friendly way. Alexander hops up, answering.

“Hey!”

“Hello, Alexander. That took longer than expected. I suppose no one saw a storm coming.” He’s rustling around, but then heaves a sigh. “Or maybe they did. I must have forgotten to check the forecast. But, we’re here. Where are you?”

“With Laf,” Alexander mumbles absentmindedly, glancing at the Marquis over his shoulder, who is pouting about the dogs messing up their cards. “The dogs like him.”

“And Hale?” George chuckles.

“He’s managing. How are you over there, are you safe?” He tries not to sound too desperate or worried. But Alexander is not just some conventional asshole. He has feelings, too. To some extent.

“Yes, Martha and I got in safe. Adams was complaining the whole time—apparently he’s scared of thunder.” A laugh. “He’s a good guy. What about you? How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” Alexander paces upstairs to George’s bedroom, and adds with a lower voice, “I miss you, Daddy.”

George chuckles on the other end. “I miss you too, baby girl.” Then, they’re simultaneously wondering what they have. They haven’t established relationship boundaries. They haven’t made anything official. Just an after-work fuck, or a stress relieving mechanism. “I hope you’re behaving yourself.”

A giggle. “Harder than it sounds.”

“You’re in trouble?” It has a seductive undertone—one of George’s growls, when he raises those thick eyebrows and tilts his head back. Alexander feels butterflies in his stomach.

“Wouldn’t be me if I wasn’t.”

“You naughty little boy.” This time, it’s a purr; Alexander finds goosebumps raising, his dick stirring. “You said you’d behave for me.”

He chuckles, glances at himself in the mirror as he passes it, realizing his cheeks are flushed pink. “You gonna spank me?” Teasing is one of George’s favourite things to do with Alexander. He parks himself on the edge of the bed when he feels his dick harden against his cotton pajama pants at the sound of George’s heavy sigh. He has to keep it down. Lafayette is still downstairs. He slips his hand into his pants, lightly ghosts his palm over the flushed head. He shudders.

“Touching yourself?” George asks from the line. “Like a good boy?”

“Yes, sir,” he whispers, letting his eyes flutter shut. He fills out a little more as he continues to tease himself at George’s taunting tone.

There’s a silky chuckle that crackles through the phone and Alexander’s knees are weak. He keeps his strokes light, draws them out as he traces his man’s solid frame in his mind, those dark abs and his tight chest. God, those pecs. He winces a moan, and he hears George hum his approval on the other end.

“You miss me already?”

“I miss your dick,” Alexander chuckles. “And your hands.” Ah, those rough hands, which seem to work miracles on Alexander’s body. He keens through his teeth.

“Listen, phone sex isn’t my forte,” George confesses, with a sheepish laugh.

“Just talk to me,” Alexander hums, a delicate smile gracing his face, keeping his eyes closed, trying to imagine his man in this moment. “Tell me how pretty I am and how much you want to fuck me, and how good I look on my knees for you.”

He waits and listens as George considers it for a moment, bites his lip in a grin when he knows he has him. “Baby girl, you’re so good for me. So obedient and pretty for me.” Alexander hitches, wants to hear George praise him. He hears him groan, slowly, drawn out, and Alexander’s heart stops when he realizes he’s jacking off, too, and the image is too much for him to handle. His man, sitting back, shirt open, man-spread out for him, slowly stroking his length to Alexander’s voice, and his own images. He shudders, feels his heart somersault. He accidentally squeals, loses his breath for a moment.

“Listen to you, you’re so desperate, Alexander. I’ve been gone for all of twelve hours and you’re already touching yourself like a needy little whore.” George is patient and calm, and his voice is even, despite the biting words. Alexander’s strokes get faster.

“For you, sir,” he breathes, back arching against the sheets as he presses the phone to his ear. He tugs on his balls a bit the way George does, and goes dizzy. “I want you so bad, please, please please,”

“Daddy can’t fuck you over the phone.” It’s gruff, through gritted teeth.

Alexander would laugh if he weren’t so indulged in himself, but his legs tremble, and he desperately searches the room for a toy. He knows George keeps them in here sometimes for him, but he doesn’t know where. His vision is hazy.

“You gonna fuck yourself for me, baby? Gonna bounce on your toys like a good boy?” At George’s growl, Alexander cries out as his stomach tightens. “I bet you’re going to make a mess all over yourself, aren’t you? You’re going to scream my name, beg for me to fuck you.”

“Daddy, I wanna come,” Alexander whimpers, trying to keep his voice down, but George only smirks. “I wanna come!” It’s desperate and tearful, a bit louder, but George still doesn’t say anything. His breath is coming in short, squeaky bursts now, and he feels tears in his eyes. “Please let me come for you, Daddy!”

“Come for me, Alexander.” It’s a demand.

The commanding tone in George’s voice is enough for Alexander, anyway, and he comes in his hand, his entire body wracking, with his voice choking in his throat. He’s still for a moment. His entire body is heavy and he could fall asleep right here, but then he hears Lafayette downstairs shouting at the dogs, and he remembers that he’s not with George, but he’s not alone. He sighs and hoists himself up, to the bathroom, still holding the phone to his ear.

George still hasn’t said anything, but Alexander wipes himself off, tucks himself back in, and stares into the mirror at himself. The fluorescent lighting makes him look paler, cleaner. “Thank you.”

There’s a strange silence, still, before George’s chuckle crackles through the receiver. “You’re welcome, Alexander. Is there something wrong?”

“No.” He scrutinizes his face, how sleep deprived and scruffy he is. “I just didn’t plan on the phone sex, when you called. And, don’t worry, you’re a natural.”

George smiles; Alexander can practically hear it. “Thank you. What are your plans for the evening?”

“Sleep. The, uh, weather channel recommends we stay indoors. We didn’t open tonight.” He stares at himself as he talks to George, wondering what he sees in him. “I think Jefferson still opened _The Monticello_ , though.”

“Of course he did.” Mild irritation can be detected in George’s voice. “Steer clear of him while we’re gone. Speaking of Jefferson, has… _you-know-who_ …talked to you about anything regarding this whole… thing?”

Sure, George, openly have phone sex, but discreetly mention Hale. Alexander rolls his eyes. “No. We don’t talk outside of meetings.”

“You should start. He could use some help.”

Alexander shrugs. “He seems to be just fine, doing his thing. And if he finds anything, you’ll be the first to know. He likes you.”

George laughs. “Make sure he relaxes some.”

“Alright.”

“Listen, I have an early morning tomorrow, and I want to get a headstart on my rest. So, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Will do. Be safe. I’ll be watching you on TV.” The line clicks, and he saunters down the hall to George’s study, finds Hale cooped up at the desk, furiously typing. The only light is coming from his laptop screen and the skylight over his head. It doesn’t smell like George’s cologne anymore, it smells like stale coffee and sweat, and Hale’s bookbag is tossed in George’s armchair. Alexander frowns.

“Whatcha got here?”

Hale quickly looks up at him from the desk, squinting at Alexander’s silhouetted body in the door frame, where the light pours around him, but he is merely a shadow. The youth look slightly startled, but relaxes when he realizes it’s only Alexander.

“Documents to prove my case against Jefferson’s. Sally’s case against Jefferson’s. The state’s case against him. But I have to make the timing right, I have to legitimize every document, research every single file.” He grins. “Congressman Washington sent you.”

“You can call him George, you know.”

“Professionalism,” he winks. He swivels the chair to face the laptop again. “Come here, I want you to see something.”

Alexander gingerly walks over, as instructed, eyes on the screen.

“For the past twelve years, when filed, Jefferson’s spending rate has been the same, with moderate raises. Nothing out of the ordinary there. But look,” he points to numbers in a column that steadily decline. “Here, the numbers start to decrease. And they _keep_ going down. But that doesn’t mean he’s getting paid less; I’m willing to bet it’s because the money is being funneled somewhere else.”

“Like where?” He asks, but his mind is already working like a machine gun. If Jefferson’s putting money away, or sending it somewhere else, someone must have something on him.

“I was able to track the paper trails back to Betty Hemings, Sally’s mother.” He pauses for effect. “She was a maid for him, and Sally was given shelter under Thomas’ roof throughout her life because her single mother was too poor to provide for her four children. So, Betty signed an illegal contract, which allowed Thomas to give them the basics while she paid off her debts. Now, she’s taking care of four children with the last name ‘Hemings,’ two of which are still infants, but I’m willing to bet that sixty year old woman didn’t give birth to them.”

Alexander’s eyes widen. “They’re Sally’s kids.”

“Bingo.”

“Which means they’re probably Jefferson’s.”

“Double bingo.”

Alexander stares at the screen. “You said she had an abortion. When was that?”

Hale spins back to the screen and pulls up another document. “Of course, I wasn’t able to get these legally. Congressman Washington accessed this for me, and I can’t bring him into this, so this evidence is void, but she got her first one four years ago. Her second one was last spring.”

“This past spring?” He doesn’t want an answer to that. Four years ago, Sally Hemings was probably 16 or 17. His jaw grates. “FUCK.”

“I know what you’re thinking. Why don’t I just run to the press with this and ruin Jefferson’s life?” He sighs. “I have to intricately plan every single second of these next few months. The number of national databases I’ve broken into and stolen from would get me a cozy, life sentence in federal prison. And if I’m too hasty, this could all be nonviable and it would never hold up in court.”

“If you get arrested because someone finds out you have this,” Alexander says, “Wouldn’t they see what you’ve found and go after him, too?”

“I haven’t ‘found’ anything. Congressman Washington and I _stole_ all of this. This is all illegal; these are all leaked files. Each one of these numbers has a death sentence waiting on it. You don’t think Jefferson already knows someone’s after him, working behind Washington?” Hale rubs his eyes. “I’ll be lucky if I even get to go as far as leaking the information if I’m not killed in the process.”

Alexander stares at the screen. “He’s not a politician, he’s a thug.”

“Frankly, I see no difference these days.”

* * *

 

“Is this because of what happened between you and Lee?” George demands over the phone, crumbling the paper up, only for something to do with his hands.  

“I don’t know. He just quit. Submitted a letter of resignation like he’s _that_ important.” Alexander rolls his eyes. He’d faxed George a copy of it. He’s grocery shopping with John, idly pushing the cart while his roommate runs ahead. “Burr quitting isn’t a total loss.”

“No, you’re right, one of our most talented bar hands quitting is a breeze,” George snaps, and Alexander chuckles. “What did you say to him?”

“What? Nothing.”

“So he just up and quit out of the blue this morning, Alexander?”

“Said he’s been thinking about it for a while. Wanted to thank me for such an ‘interesting experience’ or some other bullshit only Burr would pull. He and Lee are just going to work for Jefferson at _Monticello_. It re-opened last Saturday. Smash hit. Big competition, so far.”

“Alex, bring me the cart!” John calls, and Alexander begins to speedwalk toward him.

“How do you know that’s where he’ll go?” George asks wearily.

“Isn’t DC all about politics? You fire Lee, so he goes to work for your rival. Burr and Lee have always been tight. Same intentions, perhaps.”

“Yea, but Jefferson is a terrible person.”

Alexander shrugs. “Burr is a grown man and he makes his own decisions. But he’s also a snake, and will do what he has to.” John gives Alexander an odd look, upon realizing that he’s talking to George, then he grins and winks at him as he loads the cart with boxes of Cheez-Its and animal crackers.

George’s sigh is heavy and muffled in the receiver. “Martha won’t be happy.”

“We needed that negativity gone, anyway, sir,” Alexander replies coolly, ignoring his teasing roommate, who eventually gets distracted, anyway, and pushes the cart himself. Alexander trails behind him, mind in George’s world, ignoring the passersby. It isn’t like George to snap, but there is a lot of pressure on him right now. Alexander doesn’t take it personally. “There’s nothing you could have done to stop him. If you were here, he would have done the same thing. Next thing we know, he’s putting in an application to work with Jefferson, signing up to be on his campaign committee, claiming he knows you because he’s worked with you for the past year. That could be useful to Jefferson.”

“You’re right,” he mumbles after a moment. “We need to stay focused.”

In a low voice, Alexander adds, “Hale hit the jackpot with him, so now all we have to do is piece it together.”

“Excellent. My campaign trail ends on the 24th. Martha and I should be back in action after that.”

There’s a short moment of silence, where Alexander actually thinks about what he’s going to say before he says it. “He wasn’t kidding about _The_ _Monticello_ , either. It’s a cocktail lounge, I think. It’s huge.” Literally and figuratively.

“I read. Live band, ceiling to floor aquariums. Martha isn’t happy about it.” He can hear George rub his face. “I didn’t mean to drag her into it. Jefferson got personal when he decided to open his own nightclub.”

John is excitedly scanning all of the available juices the store has on sale, and while watching him distantly, Alexander mutters, “Partygoers are like kids. They run to the newest, shiniest scene.” His voice trails off. “I know it upsets her.”

George grunts. “He’s going to pay for that.”

There’s no doubt in Alexander’s sharp mind that George will come out on top, but his thoughts are interrupted by George muttering,

“I hate to be a hypocrite, Alexander. Jefferson’s done some shady shit in office, and I have, too. So, I’m not necessarily clean, either.”

“You’re not selfish,” Alexander says quickly, grabbing the cart John left behind once he proudly had selected an apple juice Alexander was certain he’d saw Burr drink once. Organic. “You are nothing like him. He’s evil and manipulative and… Washington, you’re going to win in November. You’re better than he is. Hale is going to figure this out, Martha is going to bounce back, and you are going to _win this_.” His voice is struggling as he pulls the heavy cart into a U-turn, to chase after John, while still holding the phone to his ear. George doesn’t seem to notice. His voice is hushed as he says, “I don’t care how many files you leaked for Hale, or how many times you pulled me out of jail, or blackmailed a snake, you’re better than Jefferson. Times a thousand.”

George laughs, and it’s genuine. It’s sonorous, from his stomach, and Alexander knows he has his head thrown back, like they’re talking about something casual, which isn’t potentially career damaging and life threatening.

“Hale told me that what he’s doing is fatal.” Alexander’s voice is serious. George stops laughing for a moment. “He said he could be killed for even being suspected of having what he has. Is that true, Washington?”

There’s shuffling on the other end, before George answers solemnly, “There’s a possibility for everything at this point. Subjects like these are not to be taken lightly. Everything Hale has found, over these last few months, Jefferson planned on taking to his grave with him. If he knows Hale has it, then it’s what Hale will be taking to his own.”

“So you knew from the start it would get this involved?” Alexander demands, glancing around him as he speaks. They’re in the dairy section now. He shivers a bit. “You wouldn’t have let Nathan on the team if you didn’t have faith in his abilities, Washington, I know you. You knew he would find something.”

“He volunteered,” George refutes. “He and I have talked about this many times, in grave detail. We’ve taken extra precaution, which is why he’s staying out of sight, working anonymously. We’ve upgraded security systems, and altered IP codes. It’s going to be fine.”

“I hope you’re right,” Alexander mutters, scanning the options for cheese. “Get the cheddar,” he tells John.

“What?” George asks.

“Sorry, I was talking to John,” Alexander chuckles. “But I may as well have been talking to you, too. Get your cheddar, old man.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess you could say that ending was rather CHEESY ;)  
> LISTEN I CAN EXPLAIN MYSELF  
> That hiatus was SO UNEXPECTED. I know that I said "yep school's starting back, it's going to be slow" but I haven't updated in over a month and I'm really sorry about that. It's crazy because I thought I'd be able to squeeze MVNB into my schedule but I was wrong. So, I started [Palace/Curse](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6517309/chapters/14912476) as little bits and pieces for you guys so that you would know I'm still alive. Each chapter [in MVNB] is about 5k-7k words, and I just don't have time for it during the school year. When I started MVNB, it was during Spring Break & I was writing 6k-12k every day!!!! So, it's been a struggle, but there's a three day weekend this weekend, so I'm going to try to upload again tomorrow and p/c again throughout the week! Thank you for all the support I've been having, even while I was gone. You can still reach me on Tumblr!   
> I hope you enjoyed the phone sex, as per requested in the last chapter of p/c by striderbuns! (GW is still relatively new to this kinda thing, as am I)


	8. NO, JOHN ADAMS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “That’s some bullshit,” Alexander cackles. “Vermont my ass. Most everyone in Virginia I know comes from France.”
> 
> WARNING: there is little to no HamWash in this chapter, but only because they're handling business, but there is more to come in the next chapters and in p/c!

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you,” everyone sings in a drunken unison. “Happy birthday, _the_ _Marquis_ _de_ _Lafayette_ …” Making it fit kind of throws the song off, but they all hold the last note, looking to each other with unsure cues, but continue, “Happy birthday to you!” It’s dragged on by slurred humming and giggles, as a few sing the “god bless you” verse, while others ask how old he is. They pay no mind to this as the song is punctuated by cheering and clapping and the Marquis blows out the candles on his cake, proudly sporting his shiny, blue BIRTHDAY KING crown. They’d bought it from Family Dollar, but George had wondered if the Marquis wearing the “birthday king” crown, implied that he was therefore the King of Birthdays. What exactly would that mean?

“ _Merci_ ,” he giggles, licking icing off of his thumb. “ _Ceci est mon gâteau préféré, Jambon! Mangez avec moi, s’il vous plait!_ ”

Alexander is too preoccupied with trying to get peanuts out of the shell to mind Lafayette, who takes an alarming interest in Hercules’ arm wrestling tournament. Lafayette’s idea of a birthday party was just a get together at _Mount Vernon_ with cheesecake on their only day off—September 6th. George and Martha had arranged for the party, in advance, because last year, it was sort of lost in the sauce, as a result of the night club opening only a few weeks before his birthday. So they’d gotten him an American Idiom book, which did not go to waste. Lafayette reads it like a bible. The Schuyler Sisters had the idea of throwing him a _fête_ , which was all he had talked about, complete with his favorite buckwheat crêpes and _hachis_ _parmentier_. Martha took the idea and ran with it, reserving the nightclub for Lafayette, to throw his party.

George, however, cannot relax, and has been on the phone with Adams all evening, passive aggressively discussing campaign policies that they had not initially agreed on, and still are not agreeing on. In fact, quite the opposite.

“John, why are you being so stubborn? Why do we need to go to Vermont?” He waits out to hear the bullshit excuse, while pacing the balcony, ignoring the accordion music Laurens put on as a teasing joke. “Vermont has literally nothing to do with Vir—what? No, I’m _not_ being a control freak. I want to understand why you think we should waste time and money campaigning in Vermont if we’re running for _Virginia’s_ governors, John.”

Alexander approaches the sliding doors to the balcony with a glass of bourbon for George and his own glass of wine, and tries to figure out how to open the doors with both hands full, because George has his back to the door, and doesn’t want to disrupt him in the middle of what looks like a heated argument.

“ _John_.”

He, instead, searches for somewhere to put the glasses, to no avail. He shoves the door open with his hip, slides it shut behind him.

“No, you’re being ridiculous. I’m going to tell you like a grown man. While we’re in Vermont doing god knows what, Jefferson and Madison will be down here stealing the votes. And then we’ll— _No_. It is _not_ a loss, because there is nothing to _gain_ from the two of us being in _Vermont_ , John.”

Alexander works on getting the door shut, and when he does, he sips his wine and ambles up to George, bourbon hand outstretched.

“Thank you, love,” George mumbles, away from the receiver, while dropping a kiss onto Alexander’s forehead, still listening to Adams complain about Virginia’s weather. They sit in silence (save for Adam’s annoying voice crackling through the phone), sipping from their glasses, and staring up at the sky. George mutes his microphone on his phone and pulls Alexander into a hug. “This campaign is falling apart,” he mumbles.

“No it isn’t,” Alexander responds, breathing in George’s scent. “You’re just getting started. You have the rest of September and all of October to get this in stone. Hopefully nothing goes wrong in the time being.”

“Adams wants to go to Vermont.”

“To live there?”

“To campaign.”

“What the hell.” The tone is flat in Alexander’s voice and it sounds more like a statement than a question.

“Says if we can convince the people in Vermont to persuade Virginians to vote us into office, we’ll have more votes. According to him and some article he read, most Virginians are from Vermont.”

“That’s some bullshit,” Alexander cackles. “Vermont my ass. Most everyone in Virginia I know comes from France.”

Now it’s George’s turn to laugh, because that’s probably true for Alexander. He can hear Adam’s speech slowing, though, and has probably noticed by now that George wasn’t listening, so he unmutes his mic and goes,

“We are not going to Vermont, John Adams.”

Alexander chuckles, swirling his wine lightly, watching the clouds sift as George listens to Adams’ whining, before finally getting the conversation to a close. When he hangs up, he slips his phone into his pocket and wraps an arm around Alexander’s waist, looking over the balcony, into the skyline. It’s beautiful and kind of romantic. “Even if I don’t win, you’ll still support me, won’t you?”

Alexander chuckles as he tilts his glass to his lips.

“I’m serious.”

“Wash, what kinda question is that?” He glances skeptically over at George, who has sheepishly looked away.

“We don’t normally share tender moments like these. But it’s been bugging me for a while now, to ask you this.” His voice is muffled as he buries his nose into Alexander’s hair. He smells like George’s body wash. His shampoo smells like linen.

“Well, yes. Of course I would, Washington.”

George smiles, sips his bourbon so that he won’t have to respond to that.

* * *

 

The air is still warm, even by mid-September. The temperature is still in the upper 70’s, which means a mild winter is coming, and in turn, a brutal summer. George makes a reminder to get Nelson’s A/C checked and repaired, if need be.

“I still can’t believe you named your car Nelson,” Martha mumbles teasingly as she straps her seatbelt in.

George turns the engine over, backs out of the driveway carefully. “And you named your feral tomcat _Hamilton_. So, if we had to decide, I would say you’re the weird one here.”

“You named your dog Sweet Lips,” Martha shoots back, with a knowing grin, rolling the windows down. She never tried to hide her southern accent the way George had. And hers is sweet and heavy, while George has adopted a common mid-Atlantic accent, like the rest of the DC inhabitants—the ones who don’t speak French.

“That was _your idea_ ,” George states accusingly. “You named your tea kettle Glossy Metal Red Kettle. At least I’m creative.”

She laughs. “You win. _Aussi_ , thank you for driving me to the airport, George Washington.”

“Woah, what was that you threw in there?” He laughs.

“Oh, you know,” she winks. “Seasoning my English up with a _petite Français, oui_?”

“It’s no problem at all, Mar,” he chuckles, glancing over at her. Martha’s been his lifelong best friend. Since fourth grade, she’s been in his corner, and he’s been in hers. Like Pooh and Piglet. Well, actually, she’s more like Tigger and he’s more like Rabbit, but who cares? Through her divorces, his heartbreak, her wild adventures all over the country, and his political career, their bond has been solidified infinitely. So, George Washington married his best friend. And it all worked out, because he helped raise her children, and he got to _marry his best friend_ , even though their relationship is nothing more than platonic. It works, he thinks. For almost fifty years, it has worked. To literally grow with someone, and share your life with them is an extraordinary opportunity, he’s thought before. But he’s gay, so there’s that.

“What are you smiling at?” She asks teasingly, with a smile of her own.

“Nothing,” George mumbles, and changes the subject. “Just thinking. They’re really trying to build one of these in Vegas?”

“ _And_ New York City.” Martha had been approached by NCIAA and a team of construction workers with the idea of building _Mount Vernon_ into a chain across America. Almost like McDonalds, but as a nightclub, and without the grease. “I never would have _dreamed_ it would have gotten this big, George.”

“Of course not, but it seems as though our lives are rather eventful. Full of chaos and suspense. Wouldn’t it be cool if someone wrote a story about it?”

“It’d just be a lot of sex and politics,” Martha replies. “But then again, isn’t that all anyone ever does in DC?”

George shrugs. “More or less. I don’t have _that_ much sex.” And then he rethinks that statement and how he gets laid probably four times a week, on average, and smiles awkwardly.

“See! Exactly,” she sits back triumphantly. “Do you think I should accept the offer? Or just leave _Mount Vernon_ standing as it is? The one and only—like a legend.”

“Do whatever your heart tells you.” He feels somewhat ashamed that he’d tried to talk her out of the business before it’d even gotten started, but since the day he agreed to it, he’s been her number one fan and strongest ally. “Isn’t that how it got here to begin with?”

She shrugs, then suddenly asks, “What are you gonna do with Hale? Heard you all made some major breakthrough with the, ah, _suspect_.”

“Right now, it’s just a theory,” George replies oddly. “A very coincidental theory. One that happens to fit together very nicely.”

“You’re saying you got him?” It sounds more like a statement than a question, and the hope in her voice makes George cringe.

“ _Even_ _though_ it all fits together nicely, we still need the glue that binds it together. Solidifies the case.”

“But you got the documentation, right? That’s evidence. There’s no speculation when it comes to legal docs, George.” She sounds rushed irritated, and he doesn’t blame her. This all has been going on since April, and now George is wondering why all of the most important events in his life begin in the month of _April_.

Airport traffic is chaos, but DC streets are no exception. “He’s saying we need an eye witness.”

Martha considers this while she stares out of the window in silence, mulling over it. “Like Sally?”

“She’s our best bet.”

“Y’all aren’t gonna get her to talk,” Martha says with a sigh.

“What makes you think that?” George scoffs.

Martha stares at him for a moment, afro whipping about her face in the wind from her window as she studies him. He can’t tell what she’s thinking, but he knows she’s very seriously considering slapping him the moment they get out of the car. He’ll remember to dodge.

“She’s a young, _terrified_ black woman. The daughter of a _slave_ , honey. She’s had her children taken away from her by this monster, and she’s _married_ to him. Wouldn’t be surprised if she showed up at the office with a shiner,” she clicks her tongue. “Tryin’ to cake makeup on top of it, but don’t even know how. That man is a tyrant who _tortured_ her, George. He has complete control over her, and you ain’t gonna get her to talk just by sittin’ her down in a room and throwin’ all this in her face! She’s not going to talk to men bigger than her. Let me talk to her.”

“She knows your face, Martha. And if she’s as scared as you say she is, she’ll run to Jefferson the moment the two of you leave.”

Martha sighs. “Don’t traumatize her like this. You have no idea what it’s like to be a woman, George.”

* * *

 

“She’s right. We need her to talk to Sally for us.” Hale is eating Twizzlers while he spins idly in George’s desk chair. Alexander is sitting in George’s armchair, while the congressman paces the floor, searching his mind for an answer. Hale continues, “A female victim of trauma rarely responds to the opposite sex, especially if the opposite sex is the root of the problem. Women see other women as gentle and sensitive. She’ll feel like she can open up to Martha, and if we’re lucky, she’ll make a statement that we can use.”

“Yes, and that’s all fine and dandy, but I dropped Martha off at the airport earlier. She’ll be in Vegas for two weeks, and in New York for a few days before she comes home. And we need to talk to Sally ASAP.”

“What about Eliza?” Alexander asks. “She’s approachable and open. And we trust her.”

“I can’t bring the Schuylers into this, son,” George sighs.

Hale is silent for a moment before he mumbles, “Hold on. I have an idea. Lafayette found out about what I was doing, right?”

George stares at him wearily, but mutters, “Yes. What does he have to do with any of this?”

“He can be our friendly Frenchman that gets her to open up.”

Alexander grins. “He’s got a nice face!”

“He looks too much like Jefferson.”

“You leave that to me,” Hale declares. “This will take weeks to plan in advance, if we want to be pristine.”

“Yea, but the Marquis is a man, Hale,” George replies, trying to restrain the obvious lack of fucks he has left to give.

“Do you know any effeminate men? Ones who have a sensitive appearance, or look slightly feminine?” Hale asks, trying to placate the congressman.

George sighs. “Yea. The baron’s lover. Pierre du Ponceau.”

“Great. We’ll need him on board,” he glances to Alexander with a grin.

* * *

 

Lafayette’s idea of spending his Friday night was not sneaking into Jefferson and Madison’s campaign headquarters. Von Steuben had made it clear that he’d wanted to help as much as possible, so he’d lent Pierre to the Washingtons to ‘use at their disposal.’ Pierre was more than happy to help, but George was a bit wary at the phrasing upon the baron’s departure. Hale was pleasantly surprised, and took full advantage of the angelic child to persuade Sally into talking.

In any case, it’s raining, and Lafayette’s hair is ruined. He’s indulged in self-pity, constantly pulling at it, and attempting to shield it with his jacket. To no avail. John agreed to be the duo’s getaway driver, glancing over his shoulder at Lafayette and Pierre in the back seat of Blueskin, George’s _other_ car. It’s not blue, at all, but when George handed him the keys he’d said, “Laurens, this is my old new boy, Blueskin. Take care of him; he’s a fast one. Albeit nothing like my charger, Nelson.” With that, he patted the hood of his black Mercedes. Blueskin’s a nice corvette, but John wonders why George would trust him with driving this thing. Oh, well. They park discreetly around the corner from the community center, where the Alcoholics Anonymous meet. Lafayette pouts.

“ _John_!” he’s saying his name as if John has betrayed him. “Why have you settled so far away from our point of invasion?” he cries in French. “We will have to walk there in this _rain_ and my hair will frizz up again!”

John doesn’t point out that it wouldn’t really make a difference if Lafayette’s hair were dry or wet—it’d still look bomb as hell. “Because, if the getaway vehicle—a _corvette_ , mind you—is just parked on the side of the road, someone will notice _something_.”

Pierre supplies, in French as well, “Marquis, old friend, have us start moving. It will be 8:30 very soon and Jefferson’s paramour will be arriving.” His French is far more elegant than his English.

They’d been staked out for the last few weeks. Hale had made it _very_ clear he wanted the boys to know exactly what they were getting themselves into. Fresh faces—ones Sally had never seen before, couldn’t recognize from anywhere else, ones she couldn’t identify to Jefferson as a problem. Different vehicles, different license plates, tailing Sally and Jefferson, but turns out, she always left his office sooner than he did. She didn’t go home, though. Most days, Sally went to the gym, or AA meetings. So, today is the day Lafayette and Pierre are going to play their parts, wired up, to George, Hale, and John in the car.

The Marquis walks into the stark hallway first, fluorescent lighting flickering over his head, and he knows it does nothing for his complexion or his hair. He sighs. Finding a seat in the circle isn’t hard, because no one’s sat down yet. They’re all up, socializing, and Lafayette spots Pierre file in with a few other people. He glances at Lafayette, but they don’t breathe a word of acknowledgement to each other. Deniability, just as Hale had advised them. They don’t interact, they don’t sit near each other. Strangers. Newcomers.

“Lafayette,” Hale’s voice crackles through his earbud. “Can you hear me?”

Lafayette holds his phone to his ear to play off talking to himself as he answers, “The connection is shit in here. I can hear you, though.”

“Has Sally come in?”

“No, not yet,” he mumbles, scanning the circle. From the looks of it, Pierre can’t find her, either.

“Perhaps,” Pierre responds, from his own mic and earpiece across the room, “She won’t show up.”

“Keep an eye out.” It’s George’s voice this time. “Godspeed.”

The meeting is called to attention by the chairperson at 8:30 on the dot. He smiles oddly. He’s a fragile thing, probably about 60 years old with a few wisps of grey hair combed over. “I’m Nat. I’d like to welcome you all to the Friday evening Emery Recreational Center. This is a closed meeting, meaning it’s confidential. Alcoholics Anonymous is a worldwide fellowship of men and women helping one another stay sober. You are welcome to stay if you have the desire and the integrity to stop drinking. If you have had a drink in the last 24 hours, we ask that you remain quiet during the meeting, and listen only,” he glances around the circle. “We’d like to give all of our new guests a warm welcome, and have you introduce yourselves. We’d like to welcome you on your first meeting!” Sally hasn’t come in on time for the first time in three weeks, and Lafayette doesn’t shoot Pierre the _merde, que faisons-nous?_ look he’d like to pull. Instead, he’s tapped by Nat. “Would you like to start the introductions? We will introduce ourselves by the first name only, and the party will respond with the standard ‘hi, so-and-so’ greeting you see on TV. Ready?”

“Sure, um,” he pauses, remembers his lines. “I am _Henri, et je suis—_ sorry, I am an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Henry,” the members murmur dully.

“ _Henri_ ,” he corrects them. “The ‘h’, _c’est_ silent. ‘unh-ree’, not ‘hen-ree.’” _Américaines stupides._

“Hi, _Henri_.” They give it another go, and Lafayette is pleased with himself.

Next, a woman named Taylor introduces herself, and then it’s Pierre’s turn.

In a perfect, clear, American accent, he says, “I am called Jonah. I’m an alcoholic.”

A mesmerized, “Hi, Jonah.”

“It looks like those are all of our new guests.” Then, he drones on, getting the meeting started, after having members pass around a single book to read a paragraph to themselves. Sally still hasn’t showed. Lafayette skims the paragraph, but reading English isn’t his strong suit. They have a Spanish translation, but not a French one. One would think, with all of these Francophones in DC, there would be one.

“Yo,” John says suddenly, half an hour into the meeting, breaking Lafayette’s concentration. He sees Pierre stir across the room. “I see her car. She’s getting out.” And she walks in, soaked in rain. A few people turn and look over their shoulders at her, but Lafayette’s eyes dart to Pierre, who smiles at him faintly.

Another man has been describing his story to the supportive members of AA, and he continues, with a brief look at Sally as she sits down carefully. Nat smiles warmly at her.

Now it’s Pierre’s turn.

“Hi again. Jonah.”

“Hi, Jonah.”

“Hi, um, I’m—” his line is to describe his story, in hopes of connecting with Sally, to encourage her to tell her own. He bites his lip. “I’ve been an alcoholic since I was 17. A lot of stress, a lot of expectation that no one really knows they’re giving. I moved around a lot. Different countries, different people. It adds up, yes?” He pauses, eyes welling up with tears. At once his pale face is flushed pink as a tear slips from his eye. “And I met the love of my life in the midst of it. We helped each other sober up. Eight years. And he is truly my better half,” his breath is shaky. He wipes his cheek with his jacket sleeve. “But recently, he has started drinking again. He is belligerent, he is restless. And he is so overwhelmed and he works so hard—I started drinking again because it is stressful. I love that man, he is my heart and my bones. We fight a lot more now, and he does not kiss me the way he used to. And I want to help him. But I cannot rely on him to help me if he cannot help himself, do you know? So, I’m—here.”

There’s a beat of silence as it sinks in. This poor little angel child in a dead end relationship. Then, as if on cue, “Thanks, Jonah.”

“Excellent, Pierre,” George says supportively. “You did wonderfully.”

Sally’s staring at him, with tears in her eyes, too. She’s biting her lip, bouncing her leg rapidly, and Pierre pretends not to notice. Perhaps Sally will be inspired to share next. Looks like it pays off.

“I’d like to volunteer,” she says quickly, earning a glance from a few people. She smiles through the tears, her voice coated with a thick Virginian accent. “I’m Sally.”

“Bingo,” Hale quips.

“Hi, Sally.”

“I’m an alcoholic,” her gaze drifts back to Pierre. “I’m, uh, experiencing a little turbulence in my marriage. My husband doesn’t know I come to these,” a sniffle, a half-laugh. “He’s so caught up in work, he doesn’t even notice I’ve started drinking again. But I know he has. I can smell it on his clothes when he comes home from work, I can smell it on his breath when he tries to kiss me.” She covers her mouth to muffle a sob. Her whole body shakes. A few lean over to offer comfort. Pierre sits forward. The rule is, no cross discussion. He nods slightly for her to continue.

When the meeting ends, Pierre approaches Sally with a small smile. “You were brave,” he says, still in that golden American accent. “I’m Jonah.”

“Sally.” They shake hands.

He smiles. “It’s hard.”

Lafayette stands a short distance away, listening without looking suspicious. Pierre doesn’t talk too loud, for her sake, but he’s loud enough for the Marquis to hear, even though his back is to them.

“I know. Does he…?” She trails off, desperate eyes still wet with tears. She motions her hand in a swatting gesture.

“He knows I will hit him back,” it’s matter-of-fact when Pierre says it. But he’s a light boy, with a delicate appearance. There’s nothing to betray his seriousness, though. 

Lafayette takes this as his moment to swoop in, just as he was instructed. “Hey,” he says, to both of them. “You were both really brave there. It takes courage to admit that sort of thing.” He holds out his hand to shake. “ _Henri_.”

Pierre grins. “Thank you, so much. You were, too. Your message was inspiring.”

Sally smiles. “It’s nice to meet you. I don’t think I was here when you spoke?”

“I don’t think you were,” he smiles, looking at Pierre for a brief moment. “Stuff like this is nice; you get to see where other people stand and that you’re not the only one.”

“Where are you from?” Sally asks suddenly. “Your accent—it sounds French?”

“I’m from Montreal,” he smiles.

They go on with the small talk, heeding the advice George and Hale feed them, taking baby steps to win her trust, while also gaining Pierre’s Jonah’s trust.

Suddenly, Lafayette asks, “Do you guys want to get out of here? We can talk some more where the air isn’t as stuffy.”

She stutters over her words. “Oh, um…” She looks over to Pierre for an answer.

“I’m not flirting,” Lafayette laughs. “I just wanted to keep you out a little bit longer. So you wouldn’t have to go back so soon. Give you a chance to breathe. Some relief.” Pierre and Lafayette both know Jefferson’s out of town for the night. He’s flown back to Shadwell to give his speeches, so Sally really shouldn’t have anything to worry about.

She smiles, and complies, along with Pierre, who turns his mic up in case they get anything else.

Laurens is driving, with the next step of the plan in mind. He’s talking with George, Lafayette riding shotgun, and Pierre and Sally in the back, chatting back and forth about things they have in common. It’s a tight fit, but she’s not complaining. In fact, she even seems comfortable, which is perfect.

“Where are we?” She asks as Laurens opens the car door for her. It would have been a bit risky for her to be taken back to the Washingtons’ residence, so they’ve decided his and Alexander’s apartment would be a better idea. She steps out, and Lafayette leads her up the steps, and when she walks in, she’s greeted with,

“Hello, Sarah.”

She stops, eyes on his. When she turns, Lafayette’s chest is blocking the doorway, and Pierre takes her hand gently.

“I go by Sally,” she mumbles.

“Alright, Sally,” he says warmly. “Come inside, you’ll be alright. We just need to talk.”

“George Washington?”

He smiles to ease her. Hale’s advice. “I prefer Washington.”

She approaches slowly, glances at Pierre. “What is this?”

“Don’t scare her, Congressman Washington. It’s not her fault Jefferson is crooked,” another man, eating Twizzlers says. He stands, gestures to a red lawn chair. “Sit, please.”

Sally lowers herself into it, though it’s uncomfortably low to the floor. She doesn’t take her eyes off of Washington.

“Sorry,” the driver beside Washington says bashfully. His freckles disappear when his cheeks tinge red. “Can’t afford real furniture.”

Pierre moves to sit beside her and Washington continues, “We need you to be honest, Sally. I heard what you said in that meeting.”

Her eyes are wide with horror. “What is this?” she asks again.

“Your chance to escape.” He replies gently. He glances at Pierre, Lafayette and John, who subsequently leave the apartment, leaving Twizzler-Eater, Sally, and him. They wait until the door is shut and locked to continue.

“Don’t worry,” The other man says simply. “He can’t hurt you anymore. As soon as you give us a confession, you’ll never have to see him again.” He isn’t very threatening. He’s about as tall as she is, and his Twizzler eating habits don’t really strike her as ferocious. Nor does his unicorn coffee mug.

“I’m not telling you nothing. This is a test, isn’t it?”

Washington and Twizzler-Eater exchange uncertain glances. Slowly, the congressman says, “No. We need your help, Sally. We know what Jefferson did, and we have evidence to prove it.”

“So what do you want from me?” Her voice is steady, but she’s looking back and forth between them oddly. 

“We need your statement, claiming that everything these documents say is true, and that you can testify to all of this, as need be.” He keeps his eyes on hers, and she looks down, shamefully. He adds in a lower voice, “We have records of the abortions and the missing children.”

Her eyes shoot up to meet his, wide and horror stricken. “If you just let me go right now, I won’t say a word to anyone.”

They exchange looks again.

“I don’t think we can do that. We need your cooperation, ma’am.”

“I’m sorry, Congressman,” she says, eyes tearing up. “Please let me leave. Maybe some other time, just…” she wipes her eyes with her sleeve and stands.

Washington sighs. “If you change your mind,” he hands her an inconspicuous business card. “You can reach me here.” It’s an ad for A/C and heating unit repairs, in case Jefferson were to find it.

 She accepts it slowly, pushing past George and Twizzler-Eater with a mumbled goodbye, “Goodbye, Jonah,” to Pierre, outside the apartment.

They stand in silence as she leaves, hands on their hips, exasperated.

“Now what?”

“Now?” Hale asks. “Now we wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> goddamn goddamn goddamn  
> so, I'm in a French course and a psychology course, so I'd like to think I know what I'm talking about.  
> Please leave your comments below or contact me on Tumblr!


	9. Planes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EXTREME TRIGGER WARNINGS: DISCUSSION OF UNDERAGE RAPE & ABORTION.  
> the emotion is raw and straightforward.  
> you have been fairly warned.  
> proceed, if you will. 
> 
> “I don’t know!” Her eyes are welled with tears and her voice has risen a few octaves. “He doesn’t talk to me about his job, Washington. And trust me, I don’t ask. You think I want him to win?”  
> He stares at her. “Then make the video.”

“We’ll be lucky if we can step outside without being swarmed,” George mumbles, rolling his eyes. He’s only read the headline, so far: **_Corruption Crackdown—George Washing-don’t_** _._ “Lee’s insane. Clever, but insane.”

“Politico won’t think so,” Martha mumbles. “The CEO of the Washington Post allowed him to go through with this?”

“You mean George Fredrick III? Guy’s a _legend_.” Alexander’s mouth is full of something. They’re on the phone, discussing the article. The press is piled up at the Washingtons’ front gate.

“Swallow before you speak, sweetheart,” Martha chides gently.

He swallows his half chewed food and continues. “I read his shi—er _stuff_ , sorry. He’s just going to shove this down your throat and watch you choke. He’s a _king_ at this, man, a beast. Probably a literal legend. The King of WaPo.”

“ _King George III_ ,” George muses. “Interesting. What does Lee have to do with the press, anyway?”

“Nothing,” John says, a little loudly through the phone. He sounds more distant, but Alexander is obviously holding the phone. “Last we checked, he was a bartender during weekdays and a librarian anytime else.”

“What _I_ want to know,” Martha announces. “Is how he knows this and what he has to gain from it. Can either of you get ahold of him?”

“We’re not going to _negotiate_!” John declares. “Have you read what this guy is _saying_?”

Alexander takes the liberty of reading aloud. He clears his throat first. “‘Washington Post, October 2nd, 2017. Congressman George Washington, the running Democrat candidate for Virginia governor, is rumored to be having a torrid gay affair with his _immigrant kept-boy and financial advisor whose identity has not been further disclosed to the press_?’” He pauses, and George can imagine the look of horror and sheer irritation on his face. “‘The 45 year old congressman is a married man with four college-aged step children, but speculation has been raised in the past in regards to his sexuality; as he has no children of his own. His wife, Martha Washington, has not yet commented on her knowledge of the affair.’ How does Lee know _any_ of this?”

George has his own copy of the paper. The picture accompanied with the headlines is a grainy one taken at Komi, from _last_ summer, with Alexander holding the wineglass, hand ghosting over George’s wrist. The day the club opened. He cringes. It must have been Madison. It’s always been James Madison. Jefferson’s always in the spotlight, but it’s always _fucking_ Madison, lurking behind the scenes. Jefferson is the distraction—the decoy. But Madison is the real brains behind the operation. George is thinking of possible theories, but then it clicks. He says to Martha, “Get Burr on the phone. _Now_.”

Within twenty minutes, he’s pacing around the kitchen with the phone on speaker. Martha’s sitting on the counter, listening intently, not making her presence known. “What do you mean you _forgot you told Lee_? I asked you if you told anyone! You said no, I gave you a promotion, and then we went our separate ways!” Martha isn’t surprised, but she’s still horrorstricken that it was Burr, all along.

“It was when I first had the suspicion and needed reassurance that I _wasn’t_ crazy.” There’s silence. “I just got the paper, too,”

George pinches his nose bridge. “I’m going to ask you this once, and you’re going to be _completely_ honest with me.” It’s not a request. “When you made that accusation, it wasn’t just a hunch. You had hard evidence. _What was it_?”

“Why do I owe you anything?” Burr sounds smug and George almost breaks his jaw with the force he clenches it with.

“I overheard Hamilton and Eliza in the office. They walked in and didn’t know I was there, because it was only 5:00 in the afternoon. I usually came in at 8. But they were discussing Freud, and how his ghost gets stronger every time Eliza calls her boyfriend ‘daddy’—”

“Mister Burr!”

“—sorry. Hamilton mentioned that you and him had a thing going on, but that was about all I heard because they left after that.”

“What kind of ‘ _thing_?’” George’s voice is dangerously low.

“He wasn’t specific—”

“I want you to think _very hard_ about what he said, Mister Burr, or so help me, I will rip your tongue out of your neck before you have a chance to breathe a word of any of this to Jefferson or Lee.”

“He said that sometimes he blew you and that you had a thing for dominance? Like, a kink?” His voice has risen a few octaves above the normal pitch he keeps it at. He’s scared, George thinks. Good.

He closes his eyes. _Fucking perfect_. “What else did you have, besides that?”

“I didn’t pursue it.”

“You wouldn’t just drop it at that, Burr, not when you got a confession.”

“I just figured it was wishful thinking! But when I brought it up and you reacted the way you did, I sort of… noticed that I was right.” He shuffles, mumbling, “So, after that, I told Madison and Jefferson.”

Silence. “ _YOU DID **WHAT**_?” It’s less of a human voice, more of a roar, one that rattles the picture frames on the walls, clatters the dishes in the cupboards.

“After I told Lee, a little while later, this guy asked me if I could tail you, and he paid me an arm and a leg. Not literally, though—but I didn’t want to do it, but I _needed_ the money. I have a family, you know,” he stops for a moment. “And then I found out that he was running for Lieutenant Governor. It turns out I told the leading Republican candidates for governors.” He doesn’t sound at all apologetic, but George doesn’t expect him to.

He sinks down into a chair, rubbing his temples vigorously. No one says anything for a short moment, but Burr says, 

“I didn’t do it.”

George looks up at Martha suddenly. Their eyes are locked on each other’s as Burr continues.

“So Lee is just running off conjecture.”

“Yes, well this _conjecture_ is the front page of the Washington Post.” He snatches up the paper again. “And it’s ruining my life.”

The next call is from Adams.

“Is there something you want to _tell me_ , Washington?”

“It’s a load of bull, Adams,” George rolls his eyes.

“Is it? Because I think they’re talking about that Ham kid. Is that who they’re talking about?”

 _Stop prying_. “It’s Jefferson and Madison trying to ruin the campaign,” his voice is gruff. “They pulled some sex scandal because the general elections are next month.” That’s the truth. But he doesn’t even believe himself right now.

“Pigs,” Adams huffs. “All right. Are you telling me the truth, Washington? You know I don’t care if you’re a homosexual.”

He holds his breath. “I _am_ telling the truth.” One lie. “You have nothing to worry about.” Another lie. “I’ll see you soon when we get all this cleared up.” Another lie, right through his fucking teeth. Perfect. He has no intentions of bringing Adams around after all this. His preferences and inclinations need not be shared or gawked at by the public. It pisses him off to the high heavens.

He paces the kitchen when he finally hangs up on Adams. The man had been trying to discuss strategizing campaigns, failing to realize how inappropriate it had been at the given time. Martha watches him, stroking her cat, Hamilton. The house is littered with WASHINGTON FOR VA GOVERNOR 2017 campaign posters. He rolls his eyes again.

He stops pacing, glances up at Martha. He opens his mouth to speak, but there’s a quick rap on their window. Half-expecting it to be press, George turns to find that it is merely Pierre du Ponceau, the baron’s picturesque lover. And then he wonders, again, why there are so many French speakers in DC. He approaches the window, and shoves it open, letting Pierre climb through, tumbling to the ground in a strangely agile way. He stands up, adjusting his hair.

“Pierre?” Martha stands, approaching him.

In his thick, regal French accent, he says, “The baron sent me to check upon the two of you. His interest is that you have not suffered too much as a result of the news.” His eyes flick from George to Martha. He’s a porcelain doll, Martha’s said. George agrees, though he can hardly understand a word he’s saying.

“We’re fine, sweetheart. Why are you crawling in through the window?” Martha asks, stepping in front of George, who hasn’t said a word to him.

“I did not want to give the impression that I was _le cœur de le Georges_.” He stops, smiles. “The—ah, what was it?— _immigrant-kept-boy_. _Je ne suis rien de la sorte_.”

With one look at the boy’s neck, courtesy of the open collar, he’s not sure anyone could miss the newsflash that Pierre belongs to the baron. There are bright red hickies and bruises blooming, which Pierre proudly shows off. He starts to wonder if perhaps Friedrich handles Pierre the way he does the rest of his staff. Nevertheless, George frowns. “A phone call would have been fine,” even though he’s beyond certain he would have thrown the entire thing out of the window if he had to be on it a second longer.

Those large, dark, glittering eyes turn to George. “He has requested me to check on you _en chair, mes amis._ ”

No matter how many French speakers live in the District of Columbia, George decides once and for all that he will never understand any of it, and will never want to. Seems like it was a misstep to take four consecutive years of Spanish in high school. Not that he’d ever passed with anything higher than a C minus in that class. “You can tell him we’re fine,” he gestures to the window. “Now off you go.”

Pierre approaches the window, and George is prepared to flop down on the couch, but Pierre only reaches outside and scoops up what appears to be a gift basket. He turns to Martha, grinning. “I know how much you love _la petite peluche_ and Friedrich and I wanted to surprise you!” There’s a bottle of wine with body wash and loofas in a basket, ornamented with frilly ribbons. Pierre looks pleased with himself, upon informing her that he’d arranged it himself.

“Thank you dear,” she drops a kiss onto the rosy cheek so sweetly offered up by the boy. She places the basket aside and assists him in getting back out of the window. He’s enthusiastic about her trying the body wash, prattling in rapid French, with no sort of remorse or concern for Martha’s blank, polite look. He’s about 5 feet tall, and George isn’t even sure how old he is. He has the soft, glowing look of a literal angel. Martha closes the window after he leaves.

“That was _not_ okay.” George is restless. He’s pacing, arranging and rearranging, and cleaning. “Even if no one believes this, I’ll still have this scandal written all over me. What _proof_ do they even have? That picture could have been anything.”

“Nothing,” Martha supplies, reading the article. “There are already some online articles about this,” her voice trails off. “They’re saying it’s a conspiracy.”

“Well, there’s not a doubt in my mind Jefferson’s behind all this. But how he got this far is baffling. Do not trust Burr or Lee.”

“What do we do?”

George plops down, pulls his laptop into his lap. “Get Hale on the phone.”

* * *

 

Sally’s tears are threatening to fall as she’s being interrogated by George and Hale. “It wasn’t me, I swear!”

“Do you understand that we’re trying to _help_ you?” Hale demands. “We’re trying to help you _escape_ this nightmare and get your life back, and you put one of the hugest sex scandals since the Lewinsky trials on the front page of _Washington Post_ , in the midst of a campaign! Do you have any idea—?”

“It wasn’t me!” Sally says again, looking between George and Hale. “I swear, I didn’t breathe a word of what you said to me to Thomas! You have to believe me, I promise I didn’t tell him what you said!”

George glances over at Hale, unimpressed and irritated. “So then who was it?”

“I don’t know!” Her eyes are welled with tears and her voice has risen a few octaves. “He doesn’t talk to me about his job, Washington. And trust me, I don’t ask. You think I want him to win?”

He stares at her. “Then make the video.”

Her eyes are hard on him, burning with tears and anger. “I want my kids back,” she says slowly. “I want you to promise me that I’ll get my kids back after this is over. I am not doing this for you. I’m doing this for them.”

George stops. “Your kids?” He looks to Hale with uncertainty, as if to ask, ‘can we do that?’

“If you can’t promise me all four of my children, I’m not doing the video and I hope you and your boyfriend have a lovely life in exile.” She lets a single tear slide down her face, and again, George looks over his shoulder at Hale, who shrugs.

“Consider it done,” he says simply, looking back at her.

“No, I want it in writing,” she sniffles threateningly, wiping the tears away angrily. “I want you to promise me that I will get to hold my little girls and boys.”

“There is a dilemma with that,” George mumbles slowly. “I can’t promise you anything that involves CPS, Sally. I can assure you that I will do something about it.”

The new fire in her eyes doesn’t waver. “I give you Jefferson if you give me my kids.”

Again, there’s a beat of silence. But, is there anything George Washington can’t do? He nods. “You’ll get your four kids back. Hale. Get the camera.”

* * *

 

The video is prepared to be released the following weekend. In the meantime, George has made his public statement, denying the affair, but as it turns out, ignoring the press is disrupting their schedules. Martha can’t do her yoga, and George can’t read his paper, without finding his name plastered on the gossip columns. It’s getting ridiculous when the Marquis emails him a smutty fanfiction some user had written in Pennsylvania about George and the rumor concerning an immigrant kept boy. Apparently, they’d liked the idea of George with a younger man, one who was submissive and slutty. (Upon skimming it, he was a bit concerned for the youth of the nation.)

By the time Martha and George sit down to watch it, Sally’s video has gone viral on YouTube. It has been released on October 13th, which also happens to be a Friday. Hale and George had given her all of the pointers, filmed it, and Martha provided hair and makeup, whilst providing emotional support. They hadn’t seen the finished product, yet. Hale had edited and processed the film to his liking.

Her smile is faint. In front of the camera, her eyes are shining with tears that she refuses to let fall. “I, um, grew up in Virginia. My parents were never together. My mother was a, uh… well, she was a slave, I guess. A “domestic servant.” Illegally. She worked for a man who tortured me and my siblings as a child.” Her pause is natural as she appears to search her mind for ways to explain what she wants to say. “And I don’t think she was a bad mother, she was just in a bad situation and arranged for us to live with him, to keep us in her life. I saw her every day. I love my mother, and I don’t blame her; she couldn’t have known. He was sneaky and to this day, I haven’t told her. Mama, if you’re watching this…” she pauses, breathes. “I’m sorry. He still haunts me. He’s abusive and manipulative, and I—well, I’m married to him now. I was 19 when it happened and I didn’t know where to go and I blamed myself and I felt trapped, and he convinced me to marry him, because he was so familiar to me and he said he could help me… He said nobody would want me after what he’d did to me. He promised he wouldn’t hurt me again.”

George and Martha exchange glances.

“I’m making this video to tell my story. This happens more often than people notice, and usually, the victims are blamed for being in these situations. They’re isolated, they have no friends, and the abuser micromanages the victims’ lives. This man forced me to abort my first child at the age of16, and my other four children are staying with my mother, currently.” Her voice breaks. “Just last spring, I had my second abortion on my sixth child…My abuser was becoming unstable, and he’s so obsessed with his job and it’s causing so much stress at home. He was already beating me before I was pregnant and I couldn’t bring a baby into it. I knew he would hurt the both of us, so I had to do what was best.” Her entire frame shakes when she sobs, from the core of her being, heaving for air that won’t come. “For me and the baby.”

George feels Martha’s grip on his arm tighten as they watch Sally sob into her hands, horrorstricken. George was asked to step outside of the room during filming, and he hadn’t minded, but now he sees why. His chest tightens and he has never wanted to kill a man before, as much as he does now. A few seconds pass and she wipes her face, tears still rolling and plopping onto her blue blouse.

“I didn’t want to,” she sobs. Her breath shakes, and she wipes her eyes again, sniffling as she says, “This man has raped me, all of my life. He has trapped me and beat me within an inch of my life and I’m speaking out to put him to justice: for my children, and for the women and men going through the same struggle. Friends, please do not ignore the signs. Ladies and men, victims of this situation, please understand that it is not your fault, and there is someone out there who can appreciate your beauty. You are worth more than what your abuser tells you,” she sniffles. “I went through periods of self-hate and I am a recovering alcoholic. I haven’t been sober long enough to get my children back, but Mommy loves you, Bev and Harriet. And my boys, Eston and Madison, be good for grandma.” Her laugh rings in thick tears and good natured humor. “My name is Sally Hemings-Jefferson, and I am a victim of rape. My abuser is my former child molester, and husband, Thomas Jefferson. Right now, he is running for Virginia governor as the leading 2017 republican. Please don’t give him the satisfaction of allowing him to rise to the top, America. I have no idea how many other women he’s hurt, but if you’re a victim of sexual trauma, I encourage you to speak out about it, please.” She stops, and her smile glistens the tears on her brown cheeks. “It’s hard. It’s taken me fifteen years to gain the courage to speak up, but I’m doing this so the rest of the people like me are inspired to seek help and achieve a sort of rehabilitation.”

The video ends shortly thereafter, and already, it has 3 million views.

Martha’s bleary-eyed with tears, excusing herself to clean up her makeup, which has been smudged, considerably.

The next thing George does is call Hale.

* * *

 

“I think she did excellently.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” George muses, holding Martha’s hair back as she dry heaves into the toilet. “Where is she now—?” To Martha, he mumbles, soothingly, “Breathe, Mar. Come on. That’s it.”

“She left DC, earlier; I have the address, but I would rather leave you out of those specifics, Congressman. Deniability.” Hale sounds triumphant. “That took immense courage. We talked to CPS; said she could get her kids back if she continued attending AA meetings regularly.”

“That’s wonderful!” He sits, thinking maybe she won this battle. After two decades, she’s finally won this battle. Martha’s coughing and faint splashing of liquid in the toilet distracts him from his thoughts. “And you gave her a burner?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Great work, Hale.”

“It’s been a pleasure, Congressman, truly. An honor to serve you.”

George laughs. “It’s been nice to work with you too. Why does this sounds like a farewell?”

There’s silence, and Martha drags herself from the toilet to sit, propped against the nearest wall, breathing raggedly, her eyes puffy with tears. George watches her carefully as Hale mumbles, “Because I’m thinking maybe it is. You have nothing to do with Sally after this point; we should de-install you now, before Jefferson’s men get suspicious. You’ve never seen me or heard of me—”

“Hale,” George mumbles.

“Don’t mention my name and do _not_ make any connections between Sally, you, and I. She wouldn’t give them your name, sir—”

“Stop.”

“You helped her get her children back, there’s no way she would throw you under the bus. The feds are going to be looking for me. If anyone asks about me, sir, tell them—”

“Hale, shut the fuck up and listen to me.” He stops, and he hears the boy’s jaw click shut. “You are not going to prison for this.”

“I’m afraid I am and there’s nothing I can do about that now.” He sounds sincere. “I’m not scared, Congressman.”

“But they’re not going to go _easy_ on you. They already hate you—at the least, you’ll get forty years. You don’t belong in federal prison, Hale, you’re still so young. You’re how old—21? You don’t belong in prison, don’t talk like that.”

Hale laughs. “The only regret I have is that I only have one life to lose for my cause.” He’s silent for once. “Farewell, Congressman Washington. Give my regards to Alexander and Mrs. Washington.”

* * *

 

It wasn’t easy to sneak out of his home, but George inconspicuously ends up in Alexander and John’s apartment, just after midnight. But once he’s out of his own area, it’s fine. No one’s tailing him, but the neighborhood is dim, and he doesn’t stand out too much as he knocks on the boys’ door. John answers in his boxers, with a bowl of cereal.

“Alex went to bed already,” he says simply, moving aside to let George in. “I saw the video, by the way. Was all that true?” He closes the door.

“Unfortunately. Look, I actually came here to talk to you, Laurens.” He paces the floor oddly, stepping over textbooks and folders.

John waves him into the kitchen, grabs a beer and offers George one. He takes it because what the hell.

“You need something, boss?”

George takes a swig of his beer and sighs. “It’s…if I win governor next month, I’ll have to move into the governor’s mansion.”

John grins. “A mansion? Shit, and I assume you’re looking for roomies? I’m down as fuck, man.”

George chuckles. “It’s in Richmond. Martha and I will have to move, and I can’t take Alexander with me.”

John’s face drops in an instant. “And you haven’t told him yet.”

“No. But I can’t _not_ tell him. He’ll find out eventually, anyway. The thing is: Jefferson will be disqualified, and Madison won’t run without a backup. He never does anything without a backup. I’ll win and I’ll be sent to Richmond, John,” he pauses. “But I can’t leave him, I can’t do this on my own. I want to have him in my life, and I can’t…” he stumbles over his words and cringes.

George Washington doesn’t trip over his own sentences. But feelings have never been his thing, and John Laurens isn’t exactly someone George would tell his emotions to. But he’s Alexander’s closest friend, and George trusts him. So, he supposes it’s an exception, but nonetheless, he hates looking like an idiot.  

“You love him, man.”

George looks up at him, insulted and confused. “Excuse me?”

“You’re in love with fucking Alexander Hamilton.” Depending on where he puts the emphasis changes the meaning of the sentence, entirely. George thinks about this for a moment.

“How do you know?”

John laughs, takes a long sip of his beer. “The way the two of you look at each other is on some other level, chief. A spiritual level. You would do anything for that boy—look, you made a mess of your entire career for him, when you were originally reluctant to open a _jazz_ club because you thought it’d soil your rep.”

“How’d you know about that?” he narrows his eyes. Fucking Martha.

He laughs again, tossing his hair into a ponytail as he says, “You have lied for him and I’m almost fucking certain that you would die for him, too.”

George muses. “You’re not wrong.”

John snickers, tipping the bottle to his lips. “Alex is a mess.”

“So… what should I do?” He can’t just leave his boy in DC by himself. He wants something more from his Alexander. Commitment, perhaps.  

“You should figure that out with Alex.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was nothing but suffering and emotion.  
> for those of you bothered by this oddly grotesque and emotional update, I will say this:  
> these are adults with adult emotions and own their experiences. They are not entirely desirable, but neither is life. I respect any and all people who could connect to Sally's speech in any way, as I have. 
> 
> ANNOUNCEMENT: I am starting a new series, as this one is coming to a close! It's still HamWash & it's a badass mafia AU. Check it out & leave lots of comments and love when I upload the prologue & first chapter! Thank you all for 1k+ hits on MVNB & 3k+ hits on P/C!!!! 
> 
> Please leave comments below, telling me what you thought of the chapter & how you predict MVNB will end! I love you guys!


	10. One Last Time

“Daddy— _fuck_ , fuck me please, please, please,” his litany has dissolved into squeals and whines, biting into the pillow to keep from screaming the way he’d like to. George is pounding him at just the right angle, at just the right speed, rough, dark hands gripping and bruising the tanned waist of his boy.

The bed is creaking, and thusly annoying a focused George, so he hoists his boy up and against the wall, broad palms roaming his back as he watches how Alexander’s shoulder blades pull his skin elegantly as he bends over, perks his ass up. Good lord. He positions his dick carefully against Alexander’s rim, loves the way his boy grinds back onto it teasingly. He rewards him with a hearty smack on the ass, and it bounces. Alexander’s response is a torn moan, falling forward onto the wall. _Good Lord._

“Stop teasing me,” he whines, glancing over his shoulder.

George slips it in, biting back his own smirk, loving how his boy reels, scrambling for leverage on the wall as George fucks up into him, weaving his hand into Alexander’s sweaty, messy hair as a leash, pulling him back when he thrusts up into him. “Good boy,” he murmurs next to his ear. “Whose ass is this, Alexander?”

“Yours,” he breathes out, flushing pinker when his man tugs on his hair.

“Say it louder for me, if you can,” George purrs. “I know you can.” He slows down, rests so that just the head is in.

“Fuck me already, you shithead; wreck me.” Another smack on his boy’s fine ass and he squeals, a laugh curling the ends of it. “That’s it, Daddy, tear that ass up, it’s yours.”

George doesn’t use all of his strength to restrain his boy and make him scream, but if he did, he knows Alexander would love it. He still has to exercise _some_ form of self-control, though. He rolls his hips slowly, allowing Alexander to rock with him, even though he’s facing away from him, against the wall. His moans are slow, now, more throaty. George squeezes the reddened cheek gently, kissing hickies into his boy’s hot neck. There are already a few blooming, down his back and over his collarbones. He loves how worn and fucked his boy looks with George’s marks all over him, his inner thigh, his shoulders, his naval. He loves how he shakes his hair off of his neck when sweat makes it stick, and how wide his eyes are when George stretches him— _goddamn, he loves those eyes_.

“Faster,” Alexander breathes out desperately. “Please, I’m going to come all over this fucking wall,”

George heeds this, figures he’s been holding out long enough. He snaps his hips, and Alexander squeals, George’s hands holding his boy’s waist in place as he pounds into him, moaning sharply at how tight Alexander clenches around him, and that voice filling his senses. He comes, just as Alexander does, his boy’s voice shakes and he goes stiff for a moment, groaning once he comes down from that high. George slows down, sighing contently.

He stands upright, upon realizing how sore they’re both going to be when he feels the burn in his thighs and lower back. Alexander’s knees buckle and he falls backwards onto George, who plops down onto the bed with him.

“Sorry,” Alexander laughs. “Can’t feel my legs.”

“Means I did something right,” George mumbles, kissing his boy’s temple.

In actuality, George has done quite a few things right. He’s guessing maybe that’s how he’s about to send to Thomas Jefferson to federal prison. He tries to ignore the queasy guilt of Hale’s wide, glassy eyes when he was being escorted out of the courthouse on national television. The cameras flashed around him as his dark stubble had gone unshaved over pale, hollow cheeks. The way his tired, frantic eyes searched…George sighs heavily.

Alexander sits up and hands George his glass of bourbon from the night stand while he swirls his wine. “George Washington, you’ve got to be pretty damn stupid to sleep with a man during the scandal crisis headline,”

George chuckles. “Thank you, Alexander.” They clink glasses.

Alexander sips his wine idly. “So when do we find out who won?” He waggles his eyebrows teasingly. He doesn’t seem to notice the weight on George’s mind.

“The 27th of November,” George mumbles. He wants to say something about Hale, but he doesn’t want to kill the vibe. And he probably shouldn’t mention another man right after sex. He tries to distract himself. “Ah, Martha wanted to have a Thanksgiving dinner this year. The kids are all off at college. Won’t be coming home.”

“That an invitation?” Alexander arranges himself so that he’s resting his head on George’s chest, but manages to not spill his drink when he sips it. “It’s the 23rd this year, right?”

George nods. The smalltalk is killing him. They could be talking about this Hale thing, instead of discussing the days of the year. Not that it would get him out of prison, but maybe it would take some of the weight off of George’s chest. He wasn’t at the hearing. He wasn’t present when he was arrested. He can’t visit him without raising suspicion—which is the last thing he needs right now, despite the young man laying beside him. He tries to rationalize that Hale approached him, and that Hale understood the consequences, but that isn’t enough. Hale was an idiot for getting caught. George was a bigger idiot for letting him.

George can’t go to prison, too. In that case, Hale would have gone in vain.

He closes his eyes, and feels Alexander snuggle into his chest. His heart is hammering, but he tries to fall asleep, anyway.

It doesn’t come easy, not even when Alexander’s frame is molded perfectly to fit into his, and his boy is snoring softly on his chest, stirring slightly. The clock says 1:12am, and he still can’t find sleep. He doesn’t open his eyes for a while, thinking perhaps, he’ll slip into it, to no avail. He only gets a headache.

At 3:30am, he finally drifts off, only to be jolted awake for no particular reason, two hours later, feeling more tired and sore than he had before.

He’ll have to get up in an hour or so, anyway. He rolls over, back to Alexander, and wedges a folded pillow between his head and his arm.

* * *

 

He finds out later that he’s exhibiting what’s known as a Guilty ConscienceTM. According to his wife, it’s the responsibility for the imprisonment of one of his own. He could have told her that.  Last he’d heard from Hale, however, Sally is safe, and is living in the same town as her mother. She’s in the process of obtaining her four children again, so he should feel relieved. She’s become a national face of domestic violence refuge and sexual assault prevention and awareness, and is working in a close partnership with the First Lady. Her ending seems happy, George observes, reading the newspaper. She deserves nothing less. But Hale. What about Hale? Forty years to life for cyberterrorism? That’s unrealistic. Then again, the past two years have been unrealistic. He looks at the lockscreen on his phone of him and Alexander for a moment. He sighs.

“So you mean to tell me you never _once_ mentioned that we would have to move to Richmond if you won?” Martha demands, disbelief evident in her voice. “What are you going to do?”

George heaves a sigh as she distracts him from his thoughts. “I don’t know, Mar. But he’s an adult. Alexander understands sacrifice.”

“ _Alexander_ understands heartbreak.”

He’d hate to be an asshole and say ‘this isn’t about him’ but he catches himself. Because it is about Alexander. He would do anything for that boy. “I don’t know what you want me to do. Take him with us? What about the press? Think about what a scene that would cause.”

She shrugs. “Just talk to him about it. See what he has to say, how he’ll handle it.”

The problem is, he knows how Alexander will handle it: unpredictably. That is how he handles everything else. Maybe he’ll smile and understand. Maybe he’ll accuse George of cheating. Maybe he’ll support George and applaud him for chasing his dream. Maybe he’ll throw something at George, and then curse him out and start crying, probably. Maybe he’ll walk out, maybe he’ll stick around. Maybe he won’t mind. He knows how it’ll go because it always goes that way. Everything with Alexander is a gamble.

He rubs his temples to placate the migraine forming behind his eyes, and Martha’s small hands drop onto his shoulders.

“You can’t stress now, George.” She begins to massage him slowly, and it reminds him of their first campaign together, fifteen years ago. Obviously not the same circumstances for stress, but her words of encouragement, behind a massage has sort of become their ritual. Best friends, certainly. “I know you have Hale and the elections, and the scandal—and _Alexander_ on your plate. But you can’t afford to lose focus now,”

She’s right and he sighs again, but only to let out the breath he’d been holding for some reason. “I know, Martha, but you know this scandal isn’t just going to _disappear_. I can’t help Nathan, and I can’t save Alexander. And it’s my _duty_ to lead these young men and protect them. And I can’t do that. I can’t even protect myself.” The newspaper is still laying on the kitchen counter, from weeks ago. He couldn’t bring himself to throw it out. That newspaper is his fate.

“You’ve already publically denied everything. You’ve made a statement, George. Only time can heal this wound. It’ll dissipate eventually. It wasn’t even that terrible. They had a single grainy picture, and a few stories that anyone could make up about anybody else. You’ve got this election in the bag. And even without Hale’s help, you would’ve had it, still,” she soothes him. “Just take a breath, alright? Weather the storm.”

It’s in George’s best interest to heed Martha’s advice. He understands that he must, no matter how mediocre or annoying it might be. If he doesn’t convince himself that she is absolutely right, he will drive himself insane. He attempts to distract himself by cleaning, but when he cleans everything, there is nothing left to clean. He’s a wreck. Never has he allowed his nerves to get the better of him, but he’s been in high-stress mode all year.

Outwardly, he seems fine, other than his frantic cleaning. He keeps his guard up, and no one can tell that he’s stressed beyond words. But George Washington doesn’t get stressed. According to other people.

The bags under his eyes are noticeable now, as his days become longer, and his nights are longer still. Martha has kindly advised him to try antidepressants or a sleep inducer, but in their separate bedrooms, he pays no mind to her. He works when he cannot sleep. And when he’s not working, he’s cleaning.

His life is falling apart.

Of course, George was a bit annoyed to find that Jefferson publically reacted to the scandal and Sally’s video, which was ignored and dismissed. He denied any of her accusations, and called her “crazy,” which did not fly well with the public. With Hale’s presented evidence, and Sally’s testimony, the verdict of the trial was plainly simple: guilty, on all counts. Insurance fraud was thrown in there, with the subpoena.

Sally had cried tears of joy, and George knew Hale did, too, when he saw the news headlines. Martha did. Hell, George might have.

The farther he gets into November, the more things seem to slow down. No one hassles him about the affair once the public begins to criticize and scrutinize the publishers of the initial article—there’s no dirt there. Without George’s help, or encouragement, the public begins to demonstrate how easily one could manipulate images and photoshop and whatnot. Surprisingly, very easy. It takes a heavy weight off of his shoulders when he receives a formal apology for slander from various authors and editors.

 “You can press charges,” Martha advises him one afternoon. “A civil case.”

“I won’t do that,” George mumbles, dipping his polishing brush into small canister, and returning it to his shoe as he polishes it thoroughly. “After all, he wasn’t _wrong_ about the affair. I simply didn’t want my private life to become public.”

“Right,” she smiles. “But if you don’t take action, the public might suspect as much. You don’t have to do anything huge.”

“Well, the 1st Amendment would make it difficult for me to go after him, wouldn’t it? It’s over, Martha. I’d like to drop it.”

“George Washington,” she chuckles. “Ever the pacifist.”

“I draw the line at murder,” he muses, switching brushes to buff his shoes.

“Knock, knock!” There’s a bright, cheerful singsong voice from the foyer, coated with a honey-sweet French accent. Alexander pops his head in, looking around at them, with a huge grin.

George glances over his shoulder at all four of the boys moseying into their kitchen, carrying pizza boxes, balloons, and 2 liter bottles. He’s pleasantly surprised at the way they set up so smoothly, popping party hats onto everyone’s heads. Hercules and Lafayette arrange the pizza while Alexander plants a kiss on George’s cheek. John declares that it’s “show time” while George wonders why he has a Brooklyn accent if he’s from South Carolina.

Alexander beams, handing George the newspaper. The front page has a picture of a very annoyed Jefferson in cuffs being hassled by two officers, through a crowd of protesters, with the headline, **_HE’S THOMAS JEFFER-DONE FOR GOOD._**

George frowns. “Why does every headline _have_ to be a pun?”

They all stop and think for a moment. Literally every headline is a pun for the Washington Post. _Every. Single. One_. It’s like they take their jobs for granted, or something.

Lafayette kisses George twice on each cheek, as he does, every other time they see each other, and he can’t help but smile when they begin to congratulate him on his inevitable win. John is the first to get to the pizza, and once they all have a serving, they’re standing around the kitchen, leaning on counters, idly discussing politics and the weather. They end up discussing Sally’s bright future and conveying their good wishes for her. They raise a toast to her, and George feels at peace for a moment.

But then he meets eyes with Alexander, and his heart sinks. He decides that now isn’t a good time to mention their fate to him, and so he reclines in his chair, and smiles when Alexander flashes his grin.

They stay for about 4 hours, and it’s 4pm when they all leave, having ate the pizza. They do, after all, still work at _Mount Vernon_. John takes whatever is left over, and Hercules escorts Lafayette out cheerfully, giving him advice on how to sew pants.

With Martha in the shower, and Alexander sitting across from him, George decides that now will be a good time to say something. He doesn’t want Alexander to find out from someone else. That would be really bad.

“Alexander, can we talk?”

“Aren’t we talking already?” It’s almost wry, but his eyes are bright. “It was nice to hang out with you and the boys and Martha again, one last time. Like on the first night we met, two years ago.” He smiles wistfully.

George stops. He feels cold sweat breaking out on his forehead, and that feeling of panic when you first wake up from a nightmare. “Alex…”

“I know what you’re going to say, George. So don’t bother.”

This time, he’s dumbfounded. “What?”

“You’re going to be the Virginia governor. That’s like being president of a state. I did my research. You’re moving to the governor’s mansion in Richmond. You didn’t know how to break up with me. I’m not stupid.” He says it without looking at George, and if he’s hurt, he shows no signs of it. He twiddles his thumbs. Quietly, he adds, “You can do it. I don’t mind.”

“Alexander, I—”

“I was planning on going back to New York, anyway.”

“What?”

“I’ve been saving up money to pay for my tuition. Next fall, I’m going back to school. Princeton. Again. I found something I’m interested in.”

The silence is deafening. George feels the world melt away as he stares into those eyes. He could drown in those eyes. But Alexander breaks the stare too soon, and it suddenly hits George that he’ll probably never see this boy again if he leaves him. He folds his lips.

“I wasn’t going to break up with you.”

Alexander lifts his eyes to meet George’s and he feels his heart swell. “Long distance relationships don’t work for me.”

“I was asking you to come with me, love.” His voice is too quiet. He feels something in the air change when a tear rolls down Alexander’s cheek, and he freezes. “To Richmond.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No. I’ve almost ruined your career already, George. And I’ve been thinking about it. If you become Governor, you’ll eventually become President of the United States. I don’t wanna stain your record; this scandal will already mark the rest of your career.”

“The scandal was dismissed, publically.” He can feel himself becoming overwhelmed as his face heats up.

“Politics aren’t court cases, George. There is no ‘innocent until proven guilty.’ There is no verdict, there is no dismissal—people always remember a sex scandal. Whether it was legitimate or not. Especially when the subject of one is a presidential candidate.” Alexander shifts in his seat. He pauses for a moment, then says, “I’m dangerous for your career.”

“Alexander, don’t say that.”

“It’s true, George,” he smiles.

He can’t argue with that. He looks down at the table, stares at his solo cup. He can’t say, ‘But I don’t care about my career; I care about you.’ He can’t say, ‘But I couldn’t let another man hold you.’ He can’t say, ‘But I would die for you.’ He can’t say, ‘But I love you.’

So he doesn’t say anything.

* * *

 

It’s no surprise when George is elected Governor of Virginia in 2017. They have the ceremony and the banquet, and he’s there with his coworkers and campaign team, and his secretary, Ben. And Martha.

Alexander hasn’t called George since that discussion. He hadn’t come to Thanksgiving dinner, either. He’d B.S.ed an excuse, telling him his father was in town, but Alexander didn’t have a father. So, George just came to terms with Alexander avoiding him. It hurt, but Alex was right—he’s dangerous.

However, George doesn’t give a shit about that. The night of his election, he receives full notice that he has a month to pack his things and prepare to move. Martha is excited, and George is amused at it, but he can’t leave without saying goodbye to their team at the club.

They stop by _Mount Vernon_ , and George is greeted with a surprise party. The whole staff has put together a congratulations/farewell party, which Martha was apparently in on. He isn’t surprised. Normal club goers, who support George, congratulate him as well, as he makes his way through the crowd, escorted by Hercules and the security team. George scans the crowd, thanking his supporters, signing autographs if asked, and meeting interested guests.

However, Alexander is nowhere in sight.

It’s fair, he decides. Because George did break his boy’s heart. Or, _the_ boy’s heart. He broke Alexander’s heart. His Alexander. He swallows a lump in his throat. He doesn’t expect him to simply show up at a farewell party, grinning and celebratory. But he would like to see him, one last time.

Martha seems to notice George’s forlornness, even though he’s smiling and shaking hands with his guests. She quietly asks John, at the DJ booth, of Alexander’s whereabouts, who only shrugs in reply.

George ends up texting him,

> _I’d like to see you before I leave. GW_

He checks his phone, twenty minutes later.

Still no reply.

By the time Martha is entertaining the guests, who are a bit tipsy, George gets his reply:

> _fuck off. AH_

He stares at the screen for a moment before pocketing his phone. He excuses himself from the bar, and feels his pockets for his car keys.

* * *

 

At Alexander’s door, he feels like a stranger. He stares at it a long while, deciding if he should knock and beg for Alexander’s forgiveness, or if he should just turn around. Walk away. Pretend he never showed up. End it here. At this moment. Move to Richmond. Live his life. Forget about what they had.

Alexander would like it that way.

So he raises his fist. Knocks a solid three times, and waits.

The door opens and Alexander is standing there, with a blank face.

Those eyes are dull and red rimmed. The bags under them are heavier, more pronounced. His hair is disheveled. His face is pale. He looks like he’s been crying. But as soon as he sees that it’s George, he moves to slam the door.

Without thinking, George’s arm shoots out and catches it. Through gritted teeth he says, “Alex, listen,”

“What do you want?” His voice is raspy, and his nose sounds stuffy.

He hasn’t been crying, after all. He’s fucking sick. Feeling betrayed at his own assumptions, but relieved that his boy isn’t emotionally distressed, he drops his arm. “We need to talk.”

“Do I look like I’m in a taking mood to you?” He sniffles.

“Can I please come in?” His voice is desperate, and he catches those eyes, and he sees them soften.

Alexander rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

They end up sitting across from each other in the two lawn chairs, Alexander in his mountain of pillows and blankets, and George watching him eat the soup he’d prepared for him. He doesn’t say anything as Alexander blows on the spoon, coughs every so often, and sniffs irritably at the pressure in one of his nostrils. There really isn’t anything to say. If Alexander needs something, George gets it for him. Simple as that.

Alexander sets the bowl down on the floor next to him, and looks back up at George. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

They’re silent again, and Alexander says,

“I’m sorry I’m being such an asshole. My fuse is ten times shorter when I’m sick.” He coughs, a painful one from the pit of his chest. George looks away. “Anyway, you wanted to talk?”

“I did. I still want you to move with me.”

“No, George.” Alexander frowns.

“ _Yes_ , Alexander. We can get you your own apartment in Richmond. You can work in the branch Martha opened there. We can still be together, it doesn’t have to end here.” He stops, sighs. “I can’t lose you.”

“I don’t want to be a bartender for the rest of my life. I came to DC to pursue politics.”

“Then come to Richmond to pursue them with me, Alex.”

“ _I will not ruin your career or mine_.”

He stares at the boy in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“I am.”

They stare at each other for a moment.

“Did you know I loved you?” George’s voice is dangerously quiet. He feels selfish. He hates the feeling.

Alexander’s eyes are wide, locked on George’s. “You don’t anymore?”

“Perhaps I still do. Perhaps I always will. And if this is goodbye,” he moves to take Alexander’s hand. “Then so be it. But I don’t regret a moment of what we had together, Alexander.”

“I don’t think it’s really a _goodbye_ , George,” Alexander chuckles.

“I think the chances of us seeing each other again are slim,” he answers truthfully.

After a moment of thought, Alexander asks, “Do you know why else I’d like to move back to New York?”

“Why, love?” George moves to caress his cheek, kneeling in front of him.

“Well, remember how I came here to practice politics?” His eyes are softer. More recognizable, the way he gazes down at George with such fondness. “I found an internship in New York, close to where I use to live,”

George tilts his head in confusion. “But you’re going back to school?” He tries to be happy for his boy, but, it’s a bit hard. He swallows the lump in his throat.

“To finish political science. Maybe, in the future, you and I can meet up again, or something.”

“Maybe.” He kisses his boy’s knuckles, rubs his thumb along the ridge. Still staring down at them, he asks, “You’ll call me, right? And allow me to check in on you?”

“Of course, George,” he smiles oddly.

“And you’ll call me if you need anything?”

“That’d be every day.”

“Are you moving by yourself?”

“Lafayette and I are going back up there together. John’s staying here in Mount Vernon, when the Schuylers take over this branch in DC.”

“Ah, so Martha told you about that?” The chuckle from Alexander answers George’s question, and he sighs.

“I’m going to miss you,” Alexander whispers.

“I’m going to miss you too,” he hears his voice break, and Alexander sniffles, falling into George’s arms in a tight hug. His body shakes when he sobs, and George squeezes him tightly, cradling his head to his shoulder. He closes his eyes, strokes his boy’s hair, smooths it down, and shushes his muffled sobs. “I know, baby. I know.”

Alexander sighs, sits back, wipes his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. He huffs a breathy laugh as George moves his hands to wipe the tears, himself. “I’d kiss you, but I’m sick.”

George laughs too, kisses him on the cheek. “Take care, Alexander.”

“I will,” he promises, cradling George’s jaw against his. He smiles when George mumbles, ‘And _behave_ ,’ next to his ear, and sits back when George stands up.

Alexander stands, suddenly. “I love you,”

The staring this time, is nostalgic. Like he hasn’t seen him in years. George’s lips part, and he takes in the boy, wrapped in the blankets, staring back at him with those eyes, and he sighs. “I love you, too.”

He turns and leaves, but only then does he let the tears fall as he closes the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the updated version, but ily guy & sometimes, the endings aren't 100% happy. I'd say this is about 50/50 :(


	11. Epilogue

_17 March, 2024._

VOTE WASHINGTON FOR PRESIDENT 2024.

“I think it looks great there.”

“It kind of looks crooked.”

“No it isn’t,” Martha chuckles. “Relax.” Age has done wonders for George’s wife. Her skin is richer, and though the lines on her face are deeper, they only add to her beauty.

“Do you think President West will win again this year?” George stares at the poster, on the side of the building. Kanye West had been elected in 2020. But George will be elected in 2024. Make no mistake.

“I don’t think so,” she smiles. “You’re far more charismatic.” She doesn’t mention how the entire country has devolved into a meme.

He looks back to the busy streets of New York, the smell of car exhaust and mildew drift over their heads, and he sighs heavily. “Well, we should get back to the bus.”

He walks, arm-in-arm with Martha, back to their campaign bus. They speak idly, watching the New Yorkers hustle about, Martha in her Ralph Lauren dress, and George in his Calvin Klein suit. He doesn’t dwell on it. They’ve aged together, and wonderfully, quite predictably. George’s face is more solidified, more mature. His heavy eyebrows are more intense over sharp brown eyes. His face is a handsome bronze bust, with deep creases in his forehead from years of frowning. It doesn’t stop him now.

“Do you think one day we could take a break, and just walk around the streets of New York?” Martha asks, from beside George. Though it’s March, it still feels like December. He shivers, pulls the neck of his coat closed over his burgundy scarf.

“I doubt it, Mar. We can ask.”

“It’d be good to take a health day. For both of us,” she says thoughtfully.

George doesn’t answer, because in the midst of the crowds of people walking, he sees a pair of eyes, unlike any other. They’re burning, bright. Beautiful. Large, brown eyes sporting red bags under them. But they’re more than a pair of eyes. They’re the windows to a fiery soul, with passions of something greater than man. He sees stars colliding in them, and a balance between gravity and freewill. He sees oceans of diamonds and palaces of gold being built just from the sheer force those eyes hold, and something is triggered in the back of his mind, but he can’t place it. Those eyes are familiar to him for some reason. He sees struggles and power in those orbs, and they catch his, and his heart drops when the man’s eyelashes flutter, and a smile graces his features.

“George?”

He snaps out of it, but instead of turning back to Martha, he finds his own smile spreading across his otherwise serious face. 

He sees Alexander's smile, beckoning him to follow him. He just might. 

In fact, he does. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a lovely 4 months that I've spent writing Mount Vernon! I love each and every one of my readers so much! You've all been so patient and kind and sweet and encouraging! I couldn't ask for a better group of readers. 
> 
> I would like to thank my girlfriend, Jacilynn, who was my rock during this. This was my first fanfiction, and she has been nothing but supportive and encouraging, while inspiring a lot of what goes on between Hamilton and Washington, and also inspiring Martha's character! I love her so much & she is just as much responsible for the production of this story as I am. Behind every great writer, there is their Muse, massaging their cramped shoulders from being hunched over a laptop all day. :)
> 
> Next, Mount Vernon came out to a total of over 50k words, in the span of 4 months. I started on April 1st, and it ends here, on July 15th. Again, it's been wonderful to write for you all, and I hope you have enjoyed this ride with me. 
> 
> Have a wonderful day. ❤

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me [here](http://romaas-aesthetics.tumblr.com) !


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